Dry Conditions

by Martha Landman

Drought reigned high when Mr Cohen
swayed into the saloon
eight minutes before closing time
crooked nose
chiseled face
laughter lines rising from the back

the counter already wiped
corkscrews out of sight
sweatshirt stained underneath his jacket,
the barkeep had his hands full
without his Marianne
who was drying out in a Buddhist camp.

Barmaids on night-tired
creamy legs in skinny tops
filed out to home duties.

The head barmaid
keen to take Mr Cohen home,
directions scribbled on her right thigh,
signaled her patrons with
perfectly rounded lips
it’s closing time

and Mr Cohen chuckled at the
old men hanging off young girls,
declared their half empty glasses
a romantic façade
his Ouzo eyes sculpting
the Peruvian girl who wailed
her singleness in a mysterious lilt
in the smokers’ corner,

sealing his charisma
with a lipstick tattoo
from shoulder to shoulder
as the drunken mob toasted

love-promises frazzled
out onto the empty street.