Dobson Meets the Tumbler
Dobson sees, with keen eye, parked at the bar
sporting off the shoulder Spanish number
draped, like serpent across this fellow’s dreck.
Pouting eyes, parting lips, and naked neck.
Accustomed is he to the basking shark;
bald fool, swimming out of his depth, in dark,
with only single dram to drown and down
then summon from within lost inner clown.
Scraping brain’s barrel for ancient bon mots,
she absent frowns and taps her mobile phone.
Stiff raises finger for the second round.
Dobson now yawns, ringing bell without sound.
Her gaze lifts and spies she’s been rumbled,
he, out of words, gulps jagged and tumbles.