Ticknor

The bar was deep with a bordello twist
near the stairs to the washrooms. She
was sitting under a red swag lamp and
I stood there and she looked at me.
The pool table had begun with an actual
pool game but then too many arses
sat on the cushions and then the felt
and then there was a fifteen minute
window when bodies piled on and fishnet
stockings and drinks, one with baileys
and tequila. I found her at the bar
discovering a man's naked waist, the
fascination with sit-ups. Men have
begun wearing gym sweats with good shoes,
or pinstripe jackets with sneakers.
You have to go one way or the other.
We stayed until our host was removed
by three sets of hands and carried
on to the next bar. Advice, she cried.
I need advice. And all I could think
was Wilde: All advice to the young
is bad advice.