Chuck, bartender

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.

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