Last Call (Poem)

Last Call

The music's done died,
the girls escorted home

by now. Time was when
I made my own moves,

my sweetheart in my arms,
turnin' heads, flaxen hair

sparklin' like a disco ball.
She liked the slow dancin'

best; me, the gettin' close
enough she'd lead, I'd follow.

Missus runs the T-Bone Bar
one hill over now, and I do

some sweepin' up after her
final call. When the last stool's

turned upside down, we shut
off the lights, take our bow.

© Maureen E. Doallas