The lounge is closed; the doors are locked. The room is dark except the light over the dance floor. She can hear the glasses clanking as the bartender washes and puts them away. Also she hears the clicks and clacks of the trio packing up their instruments as the house music softly plays. As usual, as her waitress night ends and before her clean-up begins, she grabs her broom ‘man’ and escapes away into the last dance.
Across the room, in hand a broom,
she danced in rhythmic code
and all along she sang a song
to a heart in loving mode
that wasn’t there for her to stare
to hold, or hug or bind
or squeeze her tight with all its might
with love that’s sweet and kind.
The room now bare, she let her hair
fall down and freely flow
and twirled her ‘broom man’ ‘cross the room
and let her worries go.
And dreamed of spaces and all the places
she had spent with him before
and the special night of…. when they fell in love
as they glided ‘cross this floor.
From across the sea, it soon would be
he’d return to things that were
and hold her tight with all his might
and fade into the blur
that love creates…. as it permeates
in a loving couple’s grasp
when they journey far…. across the bar,
in the bubble that they clasp.
It’s time to fade the memory made
and put the ‘broom man’ down
and hush the cries and dry the eyes
‘til the next dance comes around.
© t. j. gargano 2012