from the corner of the bar
with a rum-and-coke collecting dust
on the plot of oak before her.
She's Jackie in ten years.
She's full-blood Italian.
I'm in lust so I step closer.
The profile of my nose is correct.
The beard has yet to flourish.
"It's a two-minute exercise,"
she confesses between strokes.
I return to my initial roost
and pose to let her finish
but the pressure's been added.
The knowledge is there.
She can't force the disconnection
we once shared
now that I've gone and
ruined it with words again.
Last Call comes and she flies
to another man's shoulder
saying she's too old
but still giving me her number.
I catch a glimpse of her final rendition
before she folds her pad:
Lead's been added to paper.
Space has been added to time.
She's captured a darkness in my eyes;
a sadness.
We'd get along just fine.
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