The gorgeous Ivoirian bartender
quartering lemons
distracted me from the allure of your
low-buttoned blouse,
from gauging the ballast of breast
via sidelong inspection,
as you went on at length about Alex’s
San Jose house.
Her fingers so long and so black
and the fruit was so yellow,
the lemon juice glistened like syrup
all over the knife.
The music was perfect, I think
it was Bach Suites for Cello —
but you kept interrupting with questions
like, “How is your wife?”
The battle of Ivy League sweatshirts
was raging behind us.
The house chardonnay — mediocre.
I ordered one more.
The bartender finished her shift
which would only remind us
of the clock in the mirror, the tab on the bar
and the door.
Rick Mullin is a journalist and painter whose poetry has appeared in several print and online journals including Measure, Unsplendid, Envoi and Shit Creek Review, which nominated his poem “Shrine to Satan” for a Pushcart Prize in 2007. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, is available from Modern Metrics. He lives in northern New Jersey.
