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.