Bar At The Folies Bergere by Neil McCall
Your eyes are drawn to the corsage in her cleavage
but her eyes are elsewhere;
gazing past your shoulder to the girl on the trapeze
with a wistfulness born of knowing
too many worldly gentlemen
who have made her barmaid-wise and bitter.
In the mirror,
a smudge of smoky gaiety
and a muted chandelier;
in her cramped domain,
virgin bottles beckon
and tangerines gleam fiercely in the gaslight.
