dixie

there was this bartender
named
dixie
in a club down town
back in the eighties,
a place
called Bojangles,
on m street.
you walked down a spiral
stairway,
entering from the sidewalk.
dixie
would always have a cold
beer,
your beer,
cap off sitting
sweating on the bar
the second you came in.
she had short blonde hair,
blue eyes.
corn fed
and raised in iowa
or Nebraska,
someplace under
the big skies.
she knew your name,
said hey, how you doing,
then she was gone
and some guy named jimmy
came along.
a rough, heavy guy
with earrings and a new
York accent. unshaven
and rude.
we never got along.
what happened to dixie, I
asked him one Friday night
and he said who the hell
is dixie, how would
I know.
it was all about dixie.
those long summer nghts
with my pals, drinking,
dancing,
looking for love.
even now I think about her,
missing her,
the day, the times we
were in, single and free,
driving home under
a rising sun.