Hey There, Georgetown Girl

Across the Key Bridge miles from
College Park, way, way after dark,
in the gloom of Mr Deeds', wood
shone if the light-bulbs over it
hadn't gone. I looked around
for comfort easy-found and
caught an eye that almost passed me by.
The clothes were disco showy
- a little out of date; I made a late
bid for companionship - only to trip
on the way to her end of the bar.
I offered her a cocktail; her eyes rang up
no sale, but she said call me Chloe Bowie.
Bowie? I asked, she said it rhymed
but she wasn't averse
to a scotch and water of the non-
soda kind. I lit up a Lucky, she didn't mind
the smoke as such, but asked me if
I wouldn't cough so much - at least
until I got to know her better
side and her smile was wide enough
to persuade mormons to a shooter.
A jock arrived at her shoulder and
I wished I had been bolder or
just a little older than nineteen
in Georgetown before my stock went down.