the kind bartender

and the bartender,
olive skinned with hair
as black and shiny
as a wet cat at midnight,
smiles grimly as he pours
another shot, and i
look at my watch, he's
almost a doctor
with his care and
concern. it's not my
health, but my heart
that worries
him most, and he leans
over and says in his
barside manner, go home
man, she's not coming,
just go home. maybe she'll
call tomorrow. maybe
she won't. not to
worry, more fish in
the sea, and i throw
down the medicine, and
say, ahh, but you don't
know her, you can't
imagine how wonderful
this fish can be. go
home he says again, as
the lights go on, and
the barstools go up
onto the tables, the
music dies, and he
stands, his tie undone,
at the door,
holding it open,
waiting, waiting
for me to finish, to
leave. we fish more
tomorrow, yes, he says,
patting me on the back.
tomorrow we will go
together and stand
by the sea.