The other night at Polly’s
the cool September air added
a gold taste to the beer and the Rhine.
This short elderly cat walked in,
done up in white silk shirt and dark blue silk suit,
gold-rimmed glasses, head shaved and sun-burnt,
shoes worn and dusty with old leaves.
Polly, ready for damn near anything most of the time,
dusted off a bottle of old plum wine.
The polite old gent bowed like his neck was broken,
pulled out a fountain pen, scribbled something on a napkin.
He and Polly toasted each other, he finished the bottle,
bowed again and left.
Polly clutched the paper to her lovely breasts.
Tell us, Polly, we ask.
Tell us what the old man wrote
that raises such passion in you.
“At the roadhouse
some plum wine
a beautiful girl
both say last call”