Janet Kolstein
Puffy’s
There were two ways to go,
and he stood to let me pass,
cigarette smoke swirling around
and above our heads
back in the days when it was so.
Should I face him?
Brush up against him missionary-style,
chest and loin,
swish, swish.
Should I politely turn my back on him?
My rear to his fly,
carefully trying not to topple
the glasses of wine and beer
making wet rings on wood
in the darkly-lit bar.
Swish.
The controlled cacophony was a smile,
late night music
of new beginnings.
What songs were played,
and what I heard,
lay chilled as chardonnay.
The Red Wheelbarrow Poets 