Assault by Alan Catlin

She doesn’t so much arrive
as materialize in a dark corner
of the bar, amid the legs turned up
to the ceiling stools wearing a scent
sop intoxicating no one can resist it.
“What’s the name of that perfume
you are wearing?” The barman asks.
“Assault.” She says, smiling in a way
that might have been beguiling if her
face were less indistinct, if the room
had been less confining instead of like
a cave with swivel chairs, drawn
blackout curtains that no breeze riffled,
no light entered.”
“What’s a girl got to do to get a drink?”
“Name your poison.”
“That’s my line.” She says, her pale
white fingers tapping the bar, long white,
even paler arms extending from sheer
black gown.
“I suppose this is where I lean over the bar
and receive the Kiss of Death?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to you.”
Nothing moves. Not even the hands of
the wall clock.

Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine misfitmagazine.net.