Cured Poem by Harry Silvera

But normally you stay
and I'm afraid I question your future
If you're going to hang out
in the piano bar
with knee-high socks
lunging for your groin
a finger skating
'round the rim of your glass
leering at the
waitress (while you wipe at
your drink, as if
you meant to do that)
whose name
might be Brittany,
who knows why
you love her,
she holds
everything inside
and outside of her
That you saw up here
long ago,
Old man.