i know there was a war, somewhere sometime
but all i can think about is your legs
knee-bent and barstool’d
lazily shaking, drunk and dancing
under pool-hall lights, cigarette
cherries crackling with hopes of romance,
and it is more beautiful than war but kills
just as many men, those local soldiers
all lined up at the bar living their fathers’ lives
and you, scheming up a way to get out
if only you weren’t so drunk, if only you
could get those legs to walk
toward some door.
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