The point of her breastbreaks the soft line
of synthetic t-shirt
gently, so gentle I’m not sure
if I imagined it. I look again.
Her solid curves are more erotic
than anything I can remember,
and I can remember nothing
this side of the morning.
She serves another beer.
Smiles. Turns as if to say
you did not imagine it.
And the turn is accentuated by
the bottom of the glass,
which fogs her lines
like looking at a reflection in a river
when your eyes are toxic.
Her face, empty of chemical smears,
is like a new canvas:
no rouge splits her lip,
or straddles her cheek;
no blue sits atop her eyes
which are clear, like a new puddle.
She smells of dust or
perhaps the arms of an old man.
Her thick hips rock
her waist rolls to the DJ
—a poet with the heart of an Irishman—
who drinks as if his pockets
are full of bad luck.
He plays tracks
recorded before her daddy was born:
Lewis and Berry, Stones and Elvis.
And it feels like time is everything
but a linear narrative,
and as the songs play the clocks stop,
we all turn a shade lighter.
The currency of death and youth
is not accepted here.
Beside me a man squats next
to a three drink old pint,
he is not here to forget
just to hide.
The DJ plays ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me”
and we all begin to dance on our seats;
The bargirl jives with the barman
and we all start to remember
our own happy thoughts
while outside grows dark with the rain.
