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.

acatlin multi

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.

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