Chianti Road Music Club, Florence

We’d said, ‘We might stop by again.’
But the scene had lost last night’s glaze.
It was ten o’clock: the guitar-player owner
had already spilled his wine and when he stood to greet us,
he held onto the microphone stand for ballast.
As he approached, leering and bed-ready,
my cousin sandwiched me against the wall.
I whispered, ‘It’s going to deteriorate.
It’s not as good as last night.’
And she said, ‘My whole life is like this.’

We poured red wine from the jug and left coins on the bar. We stripped off our sweaters and danced. The men played their guitars like women they knew well, women who’d succumbed to their touch over and over. We did not go home with them. As we left, he pushed his lips onto mine and his poster into my hand.

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Candyce Lange  would like to hear them.