|by brian francis|
Trodden and spent refuge found among the drunken
Leaning upon the bar and engaging a draught
Watching as the women of red lips and bright colors
Sway across the floor greeting every eye touching a glance.
The foot bar an anchor with the stool my support steady.
The mirror stacked with pricey pours and names old and famed,
reflect the images of drunken encounters as one stares.
Fleeting the glimpses between bottles coyly concealing,
hiding the room behind their fire and oak stained contents.
Feeling a finger draw upon my back, I turn to find a smile of love.
Sally from the market whose fire is warming and forces a smile
Taking a seat at my side. “It might rain.” She says without conviction.
She peeks. A reflection from beside the “Sapphire” laying out her bills
Asking for a PBR and a bowl of pretzels. She tosses me a Blind Robin.
The evening passes with conversation and disjointed laughs mistimed.
The stumble home finds the wind tasting of rain’s sweet cleanness.
The inner-city lights, shining their orange mercury glow, cast cavorting limbs
whose swaying dance climbs walls and dances into the night sky.
I awake in the morning to greetings as I am perched on the steps,
where, I had watched the dancing orange shadows; now gone.
Copyright © 2021 brian francis