by Daniel Cleary

Without a lack of fortitude I sit
on the perch that greets me every night,
careering back a pint or two for shits
and laughs until the girls begin to light
their smokes with cherry hair and virgin eyes
and smiles I can’t abandon even for the world.
Natasha lifts her skirt to show her thighs:
I pity those who’ve never known this girl.
I buy a round of Jack and Coke and lime
and turn to see her knocking back her Scotch
to welcome Joe with her tongue and lips sublime,
yet looking like a banker at her watch.
Her eyes connect with mine—a wink, no more.
I do this every night. I wait for her.