The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.
Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.
There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.
I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.
The barman glances at the silver case,
The man pulls his cigarettes from.
I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.
One carrying a large important handbag,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.
We are at war.
Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.
evocative short poetry – words move