Last Call
Waitresses who all come from
The island of lost blondes
Move with purpose in between the tables
Starched white blouses, tightly pegged
Recommend their youth
Legs emerge from short black skirts they’re
Anxious to get off
Clink the glasses onto trays
Gather up the last requests
Lonely and heroic, burning in the spot
A man is standing still without expression
Glances briefly at the band
Time to wrap it up
They nod, and he begins
To nurse a ballad
Soft and smooth as buttermilk
Tone so lush and warm
It almost tucks the patrons into bed
A ballad soaked in sadness
Like a pear in old cognac
Joy and moonbeams
Love and loss, sweetness laced
With zest
A ballad they take with them
As they go back to their homes
Like a pair of woolen mittens
For the winter
A ballad that seduces them
And loves them without question
Like a friend who lifts them up
And asks for nothing in return
A ballad built to make them glad
To cry a little bit
Bite their lips and crinkle up
The corners of their mouths
Draw their lovers closer for a kiss
They won’t forget
The crooning troubadour was who
I always dreamt of being
But fate threw different cards
Into my hand
I was singled out to be
The ashes in your soup
The wooden leg
Your father dances on
I was singled out to be
The pile of burning tires
Smoldering
Beneath the rainbow’s end
Alistair McHarg
