It was late fall and crisp.
Leafless trees were approaching fast.
But a still a few had tongues enough
to whisper; orange, yellow and red jazz
through the swinging door.
Inside the air was close and smoky.
Eyes closed, heads dropping into
their drinks, bodies swayed to the beat.
I blew into the bottom of glasses,
wiped and placed back onto shelves.
I caught her in the mirror, just her back
just as she was leaving the stage.
Her white gown flowing.
Wilted gardenia petals around the mike.