Sandusky stood, the bartender counted,
his eyes diverted, the tab unpaid.
Someone called the taxi, he wouldn't ride,
not tonight, not while she still
stood, smiled, touched, tasted,
the tall stranger, at least to him.
The bartender shook a negative head,
still he pushed the glass, needing one
more round, to give him strength,
to prep his mind for confrontation.
Sandusky strolled instead, prompted by wisdom,
encouraged by knowing eyes,
who knew the whore he called a lady
well enough to pay his tab
and send him home, alone,
to pick up tomorrow
and forget the lady who was
anything but.
2 comments:
Hi Peggy,
This poem pushed me around like a bossy stepchild.
(And even I don't know what I mean by that. :-) )
Ivy
Ivy,
I'm glad you read it. Now I'll ponder what that means. Thanks.
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