I Heard I Might Find a Poet Here
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
Please check out parts 2 and 3 if you get a chance.
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016
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