Last Dance at the Sunset Grille
by a contributor
When they closed the bar after 20 some years
I danced with tie-dyed Millie,
I danced with women I didn’t know,
I danced with men accidentally,
I danced with the sweetest rueful grin
for my erotic ambition,
how it would toss its tangled net
over the beer-stained tables,
spilling out to the parking lot,
into old Toyotas,
the backs of Fords and Subarus,
I danced with a toad I saw,
his countenance grave as Sitting Bull
who also seemed to know
in time the fly would come to him,
but I never felt that way,
I’d always slide back into the bar
unable to stop my restless
toes from tapping, though
I could never dance a lick.
Mark Jackley is the author of several chapbooks, most recently Every Green Word (Finishing Line Press), and a full-length collection, There Will Be Silence While You Wait (Plain View Press). His poems have appeared in Sugar House Review, Pebble Lake Review, Crate, 10×3 Plus and other journals. He lives in Sterling, VA.
See also: The Telephone Line Sags.