Bar
Talk
The wood was soft beneath my touch,
that chipped mahogany we leant against
for hours, until the clock outpaced
our talk and blinked last orders
and the persistent drone of "time now"
wove into the background hum of shadows
fading in and out of the surrounding smoke.
For all that haze there was a glow,
brighter than the brassy sheen of bar-rails
or the honeyed gold that lined the glasses
we caressed upon the counter.
And there was an ease about you,
lightly resting weight on elbows,
back curved outwards in that miracle of space.
And I would have stayed there,
though there were other haunts to visit,
other arguments to settle, other brands to try,
but a chill crept in as crowds pushed out
and the barman's till rang up its final toll.
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