Last call, last dance
Her hair is jammed into a bun
tighter than a guitar string.
She can't decide what song to sing
She chews the inside of her
lip until she tastes the red tin blood.
He holds the mic as if he were
caressing her neck while he
downs his third Jack and Coke.
And his five o’clock shadow
Scrapes against the mic like a
Red diamond tip match stick.
She wore her best peach cashmere sweater
as she belts out Kitty Wells’
“It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.”
All the while, she is paying attention to all the cheating eyes she knew
of in the lacy cigarette and perfumed air room.
Another Man in Black shovels
his guts onto the stage
singing Cash like blackstrap-molasses-in-a-rainstorm.
The 40 year old disco ball light still spreads
stars of twinkle light on the marinating crowd
and the now Blue-Haired Ladies and their coral lipsticks.
wait there turn to follow the old monitor and
sweeten the air with their
tales of homemade cooking a la Loretta Lynn
and the seat that always stays empty
at the formica and chrome dinette set,
waiting for him to return.
Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn M. Bevington. All Rights Reserved.
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