Where green flourishes and stares back
from the virid homeland not their own,
a troubadour orders rounds of whiskey
for tourists stranded amid an evening’s
languor of drink-after-drink. He nods
when the barkeep asks if the sole coffee
ordered is for ‘the girl with the long curly
hair.’ He’ll bring it how she likes it – blackness
cut with brown sugar and pouring cream.
Her ensuing gaze will mean she’s been here
too long – or not long enough, like the fingers
that stroked her hair, tumbled to the waist,
for this is not the first time she’ll say
‘I’ll walk home,’ into an empty cup.
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