Gemma's Bar Poem by Louise Marie DelSanto

Around the corner by the place we called
Silverlake, and down from the Cold Cut joint
where sausages hung in the window, Gemma's
swinging door was a Saturday pleasure.

How many times did I hear my father call
my mother to say he would be at Gemmas,
would she please be ready to go out at five.
'Gabby and I are having a few.'

Gabby looked like an old Clark Gable,
boasting of his one long pinky fingernail,
taking down the CC like water, his slicked
back grey hair a tribute to his lifestyle.

A beer, a shotglass of something strong, a game
of cards, someone to hear what no one would listen
to unless he was drunk, and staring at a sign of a young
Betty Grable framed on the wall.