Another Night Spot by Dee Dobson Harper

A misplaced beauty in a Eurotrash landfill.
Somewhere, in another Village bar,
sounds the sonorous pulse of a jazz bass,
the thistle-sweet tinkling of Steinway ivories,
the tickling whish-whish across a snarešs taut skin.

You long for that venue, that music.
Martini half empty, olive sacrificed.
Your self-enamored date builds
a tribute to himself in your ear.
Orchestra seating to an ego-feed.
Marinating in cologne,
infected with Armani,
his crass company a root canal
you must endure for
the dining equivalent of an obituary.
Arrogance in a silk glove.
You havenšt felt so much love
in one room since Warren Beatty
lost himself in a pocket mirror.

Not even your yawn can crack
the Citadel of such self-confidence.
One slender Dunhill extracted from
his sterling and Lapis engraved case
you accept, touch to lacquered lips
and inhale virgin smoke.
The woman at the next table,
Ripe nipples a chiffon draped invitation,
glides manicured fingers over the thigh
of her rapt companion.
Slow deliberate caresses tell her future.
Exhale.

Martini finished in time for a third.
Another olive bobbles in a stemmed glass of relief.
Green eyes briefly close,
blinding you to the conceit,
divorcing you from the moment,
returning you to another bar,
another time, another kind of music.