“I have seen the last of that one, my good friend!”
He nods, while wiping glasses with his apron.
“When I first saw her, I knew it would end.”
He squints, he nods – wine stains on white cotton.
“Well, anyway, to hell with them,” I pretend.
He blinks, he nods, “I beg your pardon?”

Something about this character is not a little bit unsettling.
But barkeeps keep confidences and keep from meddling.

I glance around this redeye joint and see
lined faces that look like Indian road-maps –
look back at the barkeep, who looks back at me,
and inquire, “What have you got on tap?”
“Well, what you to pay for what is free?”
It dawns drunkenly this was a serious mishap.

“I serve nothing in this tavern but the ruby red wine.
You can find the amber drink in any bar, but mine.”

Some panic prompts me “Let’s have one more!”
And, if you have a music box, some change.”
“Good!” he laughs, too uproariously, and pours.
“Give it up entirely, in the exchange.”
My bills disappear into a register, and he ignores
me, saying, “I have things I must arrange.”

A musician unmelts from the tavern’s deep shadows
with songs of yesterdays as tantalizing as tomorrows.