An Old Man's Afternoon By Maurice Fairfield

In a would be poets' pub Smoke stained Dusty, (that's the pub not me) And some of the would be poets too If truth were told, as truth must be Else where's the rhyme or reason? In a corner someone fingers a guitar Fluently I charm the barmaid, as one does An old man's fluent bullshit well received Not taken serious But well received.

She, a girl, her figure full Not overflowing yet. Her hair Rich Chestnut on her shoulders Featured in her low cut, sleeveless Barmaids's blouse , her arms... Dear God, her arms! "That's the old boys. Just like me Dad Not one of you that has a slim half ounce of shame. in him." But kindly. Pleased. You run grave risks in flirting But not today Not today "Write me a poem if you're a poet" "Tell me you name if you want a poem," "Louise," she said My name's Louise." I sipped my red, and took my pen And wrote,

Louise. Louise, Louise, if I were young I'd live my life to please Louise Her wit her charm her style her grace Her smile which lights this gloomy place And other charms more sweet than these. Louise, Louise, Louise, Louise. She read it frowning. Then she smiled. 'My middle name is Grace, she laughed, Come here" and leaning over kissed me, A moments thought a searching look Another kiss then slipped the paper in her bag. Leaving soon after with a smiling wave I wondering , briefly, who she went to For a stinging moment She was gone.

And in the dusty pubby afternoon While would be poets occupied Their gloomy solitary moments with Their gloomy verse I sat and meditated on the end of all things. Without pain. Relived alone the afternoon, the wine The silly show-off verse The second look I got Before her second kiss. The spangled pleading notes of the guitar. The dusty sunbeam shafting from the street I lived them all. And all of them were sweet.

Copyright ©2004  Maurice Fairfield

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