Spring 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Ronald Moran


Beefeaters on the Rocks

During Happy Hour I was sitting at a bar drinking
on the rocks, with a splash of water, when a woman
next to me,
mid-forties, I guess, very attractive and sensual,
turned to me,

exhaling a long blue cloud, and said, I like being wet,
to which,
I had nothing to say, not knowing what she meant,
but thinking,
of course, as one might be conditioned to at a bar,
maybe sex.

No, she can’t be coming on to a bald 73 year old,
so I lifted
my glass, touched hers, and said Prosit, and we sat,
until the good life,
or something similar, called her away and she never

leaving behind a scent that titillated and aroused.
I never saw
her again and never will, and I am wondering now,
Did she speak
to me, or did I drift off momentarily, the fantasy
of a man alone?


© Ronald Moran



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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