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.
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