The other night at Polly’s
the cool September air added
a gold taste to the beer and the Rhine.
This short elderly cat walked in,
done up in white silk shirt and dark blue silk suit,
gold-rimmed glasses, head shaved and sunburned,
shoes worn and dusty with old leaves.
Polly, ready for damn near anything most of the time,
dusted off an old bottle of plum wine.
The polite old gent bowed like his neck was broken,
pulled out a fountain pen, scribbled something on a napkin.
He and Polly toasted each other, he finished the bottle,
bowed again and left.
Polly clutched the paper to her lovely breasts.
“Show us, Polly.” we ask.
“Show us what the old man wrote
that raises such passion in you.”
At the roadhouse some plum wine,
a beautiful girl.
Polly, leaf; both say last call.
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