Women Bartender Parties
Women Bartender Parties
Their eyes watched
the bartender,
like a tennis ball,
volleying to each side,
bouncing, soft like
from side to side
of the bar, filling drinks
and old men's hearts
with wet dreams,
prompting the men
on gathering closer
to the campfire.
She was hot.
Their necks stretched,
minds made pseudo
claims, and mouths watered
of her effect.
She was young and new,
and too studious.
A librarian by day,
layers of academia,
flowing through her veins-
you could see that
she was smart, yet sassy.
There was no hiding, though,
the biker girl behind
those glasses, hair
in a bun, and brass demeanor.
She made sashay look
pedestrian.
She could compete with
a New York model
with her providence,
long arms and legs,
and a longer neck,
that likely sprung
a gasket in her admirers.
Would she lie?
When she gained wind
of whispering old men,
poking the shortness
of her denim shorts
she tickled their fancies.
"Is my vagina sticking out,"
as she checked her shorts,
innocence oozing from her
and sending old men's
watering hole to rise.
She was a frolicking horse
that put all the other
bar's bartenders to pasture.
She continued pouring
drinks, like how pouring rain-
rescues drought stricken
crops. She had that effect.
When she saddled next
to an old man, lucky one
at that, her gray eyes
boring into his browns,
as they split the night air
into little gifts,
exchanging presents
of knowledge of each other,
you could see his horses
neighing, too, nudging
to get out of the stables.
Did she say she was writing
a book?
He doesn't remember.
He remembers
seeing a moon flower.
She continued serving rain,
while the jukebox played
and the patrons swayed,
exchanging banter with each.
Moments later she did
the unthinkable-no
it wasn't a red scarlet.
Or connotative.
She drank, which is taboo,
matching shots of Royal,
three, with the old man,
while not missing a beat,
holding her liquor well,
and turning back his hands
............. of time.
connie pachecho
4/20/17
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