concupiscible

She was blonde, pretty:
she smiled at the three older men
as they sat down at a table near the bar.

I know you
she smiled
and sat at their table.

Did we sing for you once
one of them asked,
for they liked to sing in bars.

She smiled, familiarly,
would have asked for a light
in another time.

A large guy in black
asked the three
if they knew her.

He’s my father
she said
smiling at the middle man

who shook his head:
I don’t know her
he said.

I’m sorry,
the big guy in black
said to the three
as he wrestled her
away from the table.

He’s my father!
This isn’t very nice
she said as he held her
while he called a cab.

Maybe if she’d said
I was her boyfriend
the middle guy remarked
I would have known her,
but I sure am not her father.

The young servers at the bar craned
anxiously towards the door
while the large guy eased her
out the door
where she awaited the cab
and another sad destination.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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