The
stool at the bar is a bit too tall
She
climbs up in a jiffy
Her
hat slips from her hand
Each and everyday
She
regains her poise
Orders for a whiskey sour
Make that three actually
The
bartender wishes secretly
That
she orders for a Merlot
He
would serve free olives with that
But
she never does order any Merlot
Whiskey
is like a stone on her finger
On
the right one of course
Smile
doesn’t go well on her face
Flickers
in and out before it can rest
Patrons
don’t disturb her
Some
for fear, some for mystery
The
bartenders serve stories about her
Free
with each and every drink
After
all, it is a small bar
In
a very big and busy town
She
comes here for her long lost love
Some
of them say
No
wonder she puts so much make up on
She
smells like cheese
No,
she smells like strawberries
Are
you insane?
She
smells like whiskey and cigarettes
Of
precisely 45 cigarettes and three whiskey sours
Some
say
She
climbs down from the moon every night
Some
say
She
locks children in her attic during the day
Some
say
Each
story lights up each table
Sometimes
the stories dance around
A
few even manage to reach her
A
couple of young boys draw her picture
Some think about her thighs
A
drunken old man thinks she is his dead wife
The
stool at the bar is a bit too tall
She
climbs down in a jiffy
And
leaves 25 bucks on the stool
20
for the drinks and 5 for the stories
The
night gobbles her up
Till
she is back at the bar the next night
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