The Bar

Having a simple dressing routine, I was always early.
So while my companion primped in the room, I went down to the bar.
A very small, stylish bar, not the poshest bar in London, but
The kind where you can always find an open seat and a bartender
To serve you.

Unlike other bars in London, this one had a bartender
Who was not an asshole.
And you could smoke (in those days).
I sat down and ordered
A Sancerre, and lit up a Dunhill.
I felt very Continental
For a Georgia girl.

A few minutes later, a man sat beside me,
Older, bald, with a ring of white hair, impeccably dressed
In a suit, as all older, bald, well-to-do men in London are,
And we began to chat.

His name was, if you can believe it,
Group Captain Alan Threadgoode,
Or so his business card proclaimed.
He was involved in international finance and
Arms dealing, so he said.
He'd traveled the world, even to Russia, China and Dubai,
But here he was, in the tiny, slightly smoky bar
Just a few steps from Piccadilly Circus
Drinking with me.

As he told his tales of travel and intrigue, and
Exotic women he'd met, as well as naive provincials like me,
He struck a finely tuned balance, that men
Half his age, or from my province,
Cannot achieve.
He could flirt without being flirtatious,
He could seduce without being seductive.

My companion joined us, and we three spent an hour or two
Talking, mostly listening to the Group Captain,
Telling his stories of near-death escapades
And car crashes in very expensive cars
And love affairs with veiled women,
Or some such charming horse shit,
And we laughed.
And we drank Sancerre.
And we smoked Dunhills.

The Group Captain picked up the tab, naturally, and
Bade us farewell, and thanked us for spending some time with him,
Making him laugh and remember his many adventures, and
For finding him charming.
For his wife rolled his eyes at his repeated tales these days,
And was likely tired of hearing them.
He suggested a chic West End restaurant for us to try, after
Our play, and gave us his take on the world at the time.

It was a quieter time, though wars rumbled in distant places,
But the deep, dark veil of pessimism had not yet descended on us,
And we all felt that the future would be bright.
We were, after all, American girls, full of optimism and fresh ideas,
And it was that spirit, that open spirit,
That stirred something in the aging, dashing Captain Threadgoode,
Who, I realized, longed for days earlier in his life, when
His eyes were still filled with fire, focused on the horizon with passion,
Instead of with longing and that tinge of regret,
That one can put aside for a time,
Just for a time,
With a few sips of wine and
A few drags on a Dunhill.

And Then I Will Look at Stars

Today the sky is blanketed with thick clouds
Only dim light from a weakened sun can penetrate
The shroud that hugs the world
This afternoon, they say, the storms will come
Fierce wind,
Stinging rain,
Even hailstones possible
When the skies turn violent, turbulent, angry.

I wait inside, and light a fire.
I shutter my windows for
No sun will pierce the glass to
Warm my skin today.

I will pass the storm tucked away,
By a burning fire,
Wrapped in a warm quilt,
With a mug of hot, spiced tea
Laced with a bit of whiskey.
I will wait here, for the storm to pass,
And shudder when lightning hits the panes
Beyond my shutters and
Thunder shakes the world around me.

But the storm, like all storms, will pass.
It will move on, blown on by its winds,
To a new place,
Terrorizing others, who will shutter their windows
And huddle by their fires.

When the storm travels on, it will leave
Destruction behind, broken limbs, scattered leaves, wet pools.
But it will also clean the air, wash the dusty sidewalks and
Make the moon seem brighter.

And then, only then, will I open the shutters on my windows,
And unlock my door, and
Walk through it to explore the world outside.
And then, only then, and with my eyes able to see the world
More clearly, I will turn my face to the sky,
And then I will look at stars.

The Night of the Tropical Storm

They called it a tropical storm, and it forced us
Inside to escape the wind and rain and flying debris that
Came at us straight sideways as they say
Inside to cozy shelter, a long, dark tavern
With an old wooden bar and worn vinyl stools
Lit by candles burning and the occasional flicker of a match
To spark a cigarette of those hiding from the fury
We sat together and laughed at our world suddenly rolling by the window
Was that really a tree? Rolling down the road?
Where does so much water come from, rushing past us like a sudden river?
Thankful for beers still cold and a booth in the back, warm and dark
To hide and be alone for a moment
Or for hours
We spoke about nothing, really, just faced each other and held hands across
The sticky table, and drank without putting our elbows down, laughing
At the thought
When the winds and rains slackened, and the air seemed calm and safe again, we
Ventured out to find our way home, in a world I had never known before, as
The thick darkness was oddly lit by the sudden stare of the moon
Its eye not obscured by clouds, its gaze undiluted by electric lights
We picked our way over fallen pines and strange pieces of life hurled from their resting places
Winding and turning down strange roads, we found our way at last to your door, where
We fell into each other in the dark, no sounds at first, then
A million sounds, the sounds of breathing and the sounds of every living thing in the world
The dark world where light still penetrated, and
As I lay there I realized that
This was the way the world should be, but I knew that
When the lights and sounds made by man returned in a rush,
The world would never be this way again, for
The light of the moon cannot be seen except
In complete darkness

A Walk on Tybee Island

We walked together, on cold, packed sand
Salt air, turbulent crash, sky streaked
Pink, gold, orange, light melting into
The darkness of the horizon's floor
I ran into the cresting swell, knees buckling as
They jostled me
Down into a tumble and
Backward into your arms
As we laughed and screamed
Young and simple and unaffected, yet
Shy underneath the raw gestures of flirtation
Unsure
Rather than unafraid
As the light and color faded into a time of night when
Green waters turned gray
They called to us to stop our game and
Come inside to dry off and change our wet clothes
Scolding us and shaming us
To keep us from crossing a line too soon
We parted there, our hands separating
I think I remember that I knew even then that
I would not feel that way again, the feeling of
Excitement and uncertainty, yet
Safety and confidence that
You were the one that I wanted to walk with, there
On Tybee, where we never walked again together
Or met to ask questions, seek answers, or share one single,
Salted kiss.

Conundrum

Last night in the last hour
Before the closing of official business
A man told me that
The best things about me were
My intelligence, my wit and sharp acumen.
He went on to say this was tragic, because
The only thing a man really wants from a woman is
To push her face into a pillow and have her
Look good from behind.
He said, "You are a queen, and you deserve better."
But according to his theory,
I would be sorely disappointed.
I was unsure whether to be
Sorry for him or
For myself, for
When it comes to matters of the heart,
And of men and women and the tenuous strings that
Bind them together,
Sometimes,
The truth cuts far more deeply
Than a lie.

Deep in a Steel Canyon

Deep in a steel canyon, I walked for hours
Through a heavy blanket of mist, sweat, exhaust.
The air was so thick it took great effort to breathe
In and out.
My feet were encased in unyielding, hard leather shoes
That slapped against the pavement in pain.
My body was wrapped in a proper, gray business suit
That was unsuited to the unfortunate weather.

A phone call to my companion brought the welcome news that
Our day of work was done, the last meeting canceled.
So we parted on the street corner,
And I walked alone for blocks and blocks
Winding through crowds of gawking tourists, and
Rushing working people desperate to finish their chores
And escape the city for the weekend.

I was eager to explore the city, and drank every
Sight and sound and smell and taste
As if I had never sensed anything before.
I stopped at a salon to have the grime washed out of my hair.
I lingered in a giant department store, selecting
New shoes, new lingerie, new silk blouses, new skirts.
Everything new for the evening and weekend ahead.
I shed everything that had been on my body before.
Everything.
The air seemed to lighten, and the clouds began to part,
Allowing the sun to burn through the atmosphere,
Drying it and the pavement below.

I hurried back to my room to dress, then out again to meet a friend
Into the steel canyon, as the sun dropped behind the towers
And night's cooler, lighter air filled the vacancy
The mist had left behind.
and everything I had carried before, I also left behind.

It seemed a thousand windows and doors beckoned as I wound through the streets,
A thousand gatherings of chattering, excited people and blaring music.
I chose one, at random, and we entered.
A long, narrow, dark pub, filled with men and women
Relaxing after a long week of work,
Drinking beers and cocktails,
And leaning close to each other to be heard over the music.

Through the crowd, three men entered, and one, in the middle,
Caught my eye as he passed by.
And he looked at me, straight at me.
He and his friends disappeared in the crowd, and I
Turned back to speak with my friend, forgetting the tall, black-haired man
in the dark blue suit, with eyes that seemed to match
Impossibly colored eyes.

A half hour or so passed by, and my friend left for the ladies' room
And I, sitting alone at the bar, suddenly felt a mouth by my ear.
Whispered but shouted in the din, some corny line to break the ice,
And I turned to see his eyes, dark like the midnight sky over Aruba
Staring at me, and reflecting the flashing lights in the bar
Like stars.

He sat beside me and soon we were ignoring our friends around us,
Sharing drinks, talking, telling stories, then kissing,
His hands running up and down the skin of my arms, and holding
Sheaves of my golden hair, and saying things that
I realized I had been starving to hear.
Although deep inside,
I knew they might be lies.

Late in the night, we left the bar, and wandered back into the steel canyon
Surrounded by glass, and concrete, and smoke, and noise,
We walked, he and I, laughing and dancing in the emptying streets.
We came to his building, and walked up four flights of high stairs
To his tiny apartment, one that he defensively, proudly noted
Was large for the city.
The door opened immediately onto the bed, for apartments
In the big city are like that,
And there was no short journey into his arms.

Of course, even in a situation that was truly passionate,
There were moments of displeasure,
And awkwardness,
And confusion,
But overall,
To feel his thick, dark hair in my fingers,
And feel the warm down on his chest,
And to have his lips pressed against mine,
And to think that he found me beautiful,
Was enough.

Deep into the night, we slept in each other's arms,
Not just because the bed in the tiny apartment was small,
But because he said he wanted to sleep this way.
I struggled to sleep in the strange room,
In the strange arms, but finally,
His lips pressed against my hair and softly kissing me,
I did drift into sleep, a quiet night punctuated only by
The far-off sounds of taxis whirring by, and the soft snoring of my companion.

I awoke very early, for the morning sun managed to slip through
The maze of structures around his apartment and right into the
Kitchen window, which was mere steps from the bed.
I slithered out of his warm, pliant, relaxed arms to tiptoe to the bath,
And awakened him, only for a moment, and he teased me as I said I'd return in a moment.
The bath was spare, small, white, with ancient, primitive plumbing, and a bit cluttered.
As I faced the mirror, and splashed a bit of water on my face and sleep-blurred eyes, I breathed deeply, then looked down at the edge of the sink.
There, in a white, plastic case hastily left open the night before, sat
Two contact lenses, bathing in saline solution.
They were dark blue.

I sighed at the realization that my slumbering lover was a bit of a fake,
And then scolded myself, for I had touches of phoniness about me as well.
I saw him lying on the bed, and he looked up at me and smiled,
Showing a slightly crooked tooth I hadn't noticed before, but
The smile was welcoming, and he reached up with his long, muscular arms and
Pulled me back to the bed.
"More sleep," he said, and I pressed my naked back against his chest
And rested quietly while he fell back asleep.

Calm and content, at peace with the moment, I looked up to see
A framed charcoal drawing on the wall of the apartment.
There, a woman was lying with her back to the viewer,
Her thick, wavy golden hair falling over her shoulder,
Her figure hourglass-style, with curves and a rounded bottom,
Naked and soft and resting beneath the moon,
And a dark, star-filled sky.
I realized in that moment, that my companion
My have had fake blue eyes and a crooked smile,
And may have used corny pick-up lines, but he
Honestly thought I was beautiful, and that
The woman in the charcoal drawing,
Lying naked under the stars,
Unafraid to show her curves and flesh,
Was me.

Bongo

Hours coursed by on that long afternoon
Sensed as minutes, as the still air in the room
And outside the window
Made no sounds to punctuate the time
We spent together
My body lying on top of yours
My damp hair feathered across your chest
My cheek pressed against your warm skin
My ear cupped to a soft crease in your muscles
So I could listen to your heart beating beneath bone and tissue
A steady rhythm, relaxed and perfectly timed
To your gentle breathing
Unlike my own heart,
Whose rhythm is irregular, like an impromptu bongo riff
In some ‘50s syncopated jazz number
An unfortunate quirk of chromosomes
That typically goes unnoticed
Except when suddenly aroused when you touched
Your palm against my back,
Or startled by emotion when
You said you wanted me to stay,
Or strained by the tension when
I thought I might not be ready to do that,
My heart went off like a furious solo
In the middle of a wild song
So I breathed and exhaled to calm the crazy rhythm
Settling my cheek into the hollow of your chest
Inhaling the smell of your skin
Tasting the trace of sweat left from our afternoon
And knowing that despite my heart’s betraying outburst
I would stay for good.

And He Was Lost

In the fading afternoon light, his eyes looked gray, the soft gray of a newly sewn Confederate soldier’s coat.
They may once have contained a hint of blue.
But it was gone.

He perched silently on a barstool, his face lit by the sun streaming in through the bank of windows. The gray eyes stared out at the horizon, at the milky brown water of the still lake, at the deep, velvety green of the lush pines in early summer, at the haze of the afternoon sun burning through the thick air.
He sat very still as he stared. His only movement was the lifting of the bottle to his mouth. His eyes occasionally darted around the room, to quickly look at the others there, the others talking and laughing over their drinks. Occasionally his face broke into the tiniest smile, as if he was pleased by their laughter, and wanted to join in their talking, but he did not.

He was neatly dressed, but very casually, as a man who has no place of business to attend would dress. Those days of work were behind him, it seemed, and he was at rest.
Or was he?
His hair was thick, brown streaked with gray, and neatly combed across his brow. His skin was dappled and leathery, with a touch of gold.
Or was it a hint of yellow?
Perhaps his skin was worn from years of sun and salt, from summer tans gathered by the shore, on the decks of sailboats, laughing with his companions.
Or perhaps from years on the road, lonely, late nights in motel bars, nights punctuated only by the din of the “Tonight Show” monologue on the television in the room, and the distant voice of his wife on the telephone receiver.
Or the clink of ice in a bathroom glass, ice massaged to give up its last kiss of whiskey.

The late afternoon sun slipped behind the bank of pines and burnished the horizon with a tarty peach glow before sinking completely to welcome the night.
The barroom grew fuller and louder, young men and women filing in after work for their cocktails. He seemed smaller on his barstool, shrinking into himself, still silent.
Silently, he stared at the young men and women as they drank and flirted and talked. He stared at the women, but with no movement in his eyes, no message.
Or was there a message, a message ignored or missed, somehow, in the din and revelry of the night?
The young women avoided his eyes, his staring gray eyes. They moved outside to revel in the warm bath of the summer night air, and the young men followed them there.
The man stayed inside, on his barstool, alone, not moving except to bring his bottle of beer to his lips, lips that were so parched, for so long, that nothing could quench them.
He sat, stared into the distance, no longer at the young women, but into nothingness, a deep and impenetrable place before him, a place where the pain was so acute that the medicine could no longer deaden its knifelike assault.
Was it the past or the present that haunted him? The future no longer existed for him.

And then, suddenly, there was movement – the bottle slipping from his grasp and crashing to the floor of the bar.
Not a tragedy, in a bar, it happens all the time, beer spilling and rolling around the floor beneath people’s feet. Easily replaced, said the bartender, who began to notice that the man was not merely lonely and drunk, but dangerously so. She asked him if he wished for another, her tentative voice hoping he would say no.
She knew he would say yes.
She fetched another bottle of cold beer from the ice chest, opened it, and placed it before him, then quickly retreated to see if the young women and men on the deck needed refills. She could not bear to watch the man drink his beer, because she knew, knew from his eyes and his skin and his silence.
The last beer might be his last.

He drank from the bottle, hungrily as a child seeking sustenance but not knowing the sensation of satiety, and the cold, frothy liquid went down his throat.
It reached rock bottom. There was nothing inside, and the medicine turned to poison within him.
He listed and rocked on his stool, but there was nothing and no one to catch his terrible fall.
In an instant, he fell from his high chair, and his face hit the edge of the wooden bar and then, calamitously, the floor, where the remnants of his spilled beer still lay, pooled and wet and sticky.
He finally made sounds, muttered curses, groans and then, the sound of the stool falling on top of him as he kicked it over with his flailing.
The bartender and the young women and men rushed inside to his aid. He made some mumbles of apology, and then brushed their grip and clutches aside, defensively.
He needed no one to help him, really.
Or did he?
As the bartender called a taxi to take him home, he watched the young women and men stand back a few feet, giving him some space, but also, he could tell, not wanting to come close to him, as if they might someday find themselves in his position.
Yet they already did, many of them, all the time. The only thing they had that he had lost was hope.
As the bartender asked him, repeatedly, for his address to give to the taxi dispatcher, he took a final glance at the young women and men.
And then, in a burst so quick and silent that the bartender and the young women and men were stunned and motionless, the man disappeared, into the dark, moonless night.

He was pursued, by all of them, and by others too, who saw him wander through the darkness, desperate to find his way home, to a place that was no home at all, and could not ever be found in this darkness.
And when they found him, he was bruised, and bloodied, and battered, and broken,
By the night and the silence and the years,
The many years, of long days on the road,
And forgotten voices on a phone,
And sailboats that broke their moorings and drifted, drifted over the horizon to be lost forever to the sea.

The Bench

I saw them, together, on the bench, as I walked by
It was the first sunny afternoon of the year
Too early to be called spring
Yet it felt like spring

The sun shone brightly and warmed the earth below
And her hair, the color of a ginger ale, reflected the light
And her skin, pale as winter, lay unprotected, soaking the warmth
She was lying down on the bench, sunglasses on, ponytail lapping over the side
Sleeping, or resting, at his side

He sat beside her on the bench, reading a book
His elbow perched on the armrest, one hand cupping the side of his head
Overflowing with dark brown hair,
His other hand rested lightly on her hip
As she lounged beside him

He seemed engrossed in his book, or was he?
Was he pretending to read intently, all the while focused on the pulsating warmth of the hip beneath his palm?

I saw them as I passed by, rushing by, not merely wishing to keep my stride on this first warm day of the sun, but also out of a pang of regret, seeing young lovers side by side on the bench, where you and I might have laid, together, reading and resting, together

As I passed by with hurried steps, I turned to look at them, together, enjoying a quiet hour together, and I thought, will they stay there all afternoon?
Or leave, together, to hide away from the sun in a darkened room,
To make love, all afternoon, before the low winter sun dips beneath the horizon to bring on the night,
And all its stars?

As I passed by with my quickening walk,
I thought,
That is what I would do,
If I were she,
Stretched out by his side,
In the first warm, sunny afternoon of the year

That is what I would do,
If I were she,
And you were still beside me.