Morning
In the dim morning hours the bar is empty.. chairs sit on tables
where drinkers sat bent to their drinks.. the smell of
yesterday's beer still small in the air. She straightenes
the bar in the quiet morning.. the sun, rising to its
duty burns off the morning's last cool..
Again and again, like a needle dancing in the records groove,
her thoughts drift to him.. she smiles.. what an unfathomable
mixture of candour and secrecy.. she sits in the first vacant chair..
to hold the thought, least the pure moment decline.. the mere
thought of him a dazzling, abstract gift.. we are all unmasked
in the end.. the want of him leaves her drained of cunning..
and wanting more than she can give.
She sends a powerful wish across the bar.. a hope that with
quick, dark movement he will seperate himself, as he often does,
from the cacophony of shaddows that surround her..
and hold her in his arms..
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