Last Call
by David Harbilas

    The dining room is a pond of darkness,
    the tables lily-pads holding up
    the drunken elbows propped on their edges.

    A waitress walks by the light
    of a kitchen door, and through her skirt
    I can see the shape of strong legs.

    The lights are thrown on the instant
    I see this, and I hold myself up once more,
    moving from table to table, looking
    through the glare for that dark place.

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