she was alone, smoking a slim cigarette
and drinking chardonnay at the bar:
legs up to the sky, clouded gently by
a short skirt of diaphanous design;
this was back when one could smoke cigarettes
in public places. she was glamorous
despite that and the seedy dive, sinatra
playing over tinny speakers behind
a bar conspicuously out of style.
her eyes enticed as much as her smile,
which was coy and fleeting and should have warned
anyone sober or perceptive — any
man of the world could have seen . . . she was wild
hell, a woman scorned and out on the prowl.

dmpitchford