A month ago I felt him creep back into the city, and I’ve waited.
He was there the night they served me the Irish coffee
with bad milk.
I was spitting into my little cocktail napkin,
the curdled milk dripping through my curled fingers,
lipstick smears across my mouth and cheek.
He was coiling between chair legs as
his renowned guard stood vigilant,
glancing times at which way my eyes swept
while holding court to ladies with terrible hands.

Again the very next week at Motel 55
trembling vodka tonics bruised the lime inside
and never did go down smooth.
Adoringly, the manager would spin another girl-shot with compliments,
and satisfy himself to light my too many wobbling cigarettes.
On account of all the suspense,
I did not hear even one of the notes at the pub,
or taste the short purple juices.
That frightening star of David
raising a shiner to red whiskered lips…

He knew of me by slumping into his chair,
massaging his temples into the back of his head,
and then dragging his cheeks down toward his chin.
His thirsty watcher came closer beside me and took his look
then reunited to circle the door and back several times
for no reason.

Attention
the poor bruised limes
the vigilant bartender
the music without pitch
the man to my right who says he’s in television
and keeps calling me ‘baby’

For all my waiting
I slipped out the back door
and piled into the car quickly
to keep out of the night as much as possible
Away from the stars and the dark and the watch
and rathered aside the company of round glittery girls
with birthdays and gay best friends
that still use punchbowls
and carefully place crab dips
on decorated table tops.