Loretta

It’s the way she moves behind the bar

Yeah...

Definitely...

It’s like she’s on rollerskates...

Skinny curvacious body gliding back and forth

Casually.

She is a music box ballerina

Swinging her arm above her head

To grab a glass

And make some lucky bastards drink.

It’s her name!

Loretta.

Mmmmm...

It’s the way that she poses at the register

At Red’s Bar in Hoboken.

The way she wears her dark kinky hair

So unique and sure

Radiating romanticism.

It’s her playful attitude

Her city accent

The way she glides back and forth...

Back and forth...

And laughs

And looks at me

With her dark eyes

Asking me if “I’m ready”?

Ready for what?

I can tell

Even in this dark bar

That her eyes are a perfect brown.

We made love several times

In her small apartment

On one of the small sidestreets

Off of Washington.

The sweat from our enthusiasm

And a Hoboken summer night

Was saturating

Until the morning

When I had to leave

And catch a train

To go to my job.

A few nights a week

Loretta had me sitting at the bar

In clever conversation

Laughing and joking

Going ah-waaaay over my limit...

Both in drinks

And my wallet.

Sometimes I would miss my trains.

And if I missed them

And was lucky I would sleep

At her place.

But she was Loretta

And was not committed

To myself or anyone else.

Otherwise I would sleep

In the old vacant ferry terminal

Or up on the wooden scaffolds

At construction sites

With the moon loitering

Brightly above me

Jacket or bag under my head

As a pillow

Until the early morning sun arose slowly

Waking the mile square city

With the smells of coffee

And freshly baked pastries

Warming the broad heavy planks

That I was stretched out on.

And as my surroundings stirred

I would sit up and gaze

Across the sparkling Hudson River

At a dark Manhattan skyline

Against a masterfully painted sunrise.

Even with a slightly impairing hangover

These serene and peaceful moments

By myself

Could also be attributed

To the lovely

Loretta.