She said, "I’m not usually like this
but I think I’ll need a cab."
She was talking about her mixed drinks,
old stories of dust and running up a tab.
All the tables were full in the bar room
but everything was empty inside.
She said she was alone and far removed.
Her sad eyes looked like they had died.
The years broke hard since Seventy Seven.
She had a large stain on her soul.
I don’t think she expected miracles
just an answer for getting old.
I caught a whiff of her lost beauty
but could be she just passed gas.
I thought I should say something meaningful
but that theory did not last.
She wore an old hat and tattered coat,
her visage from another time,
and though joy and laughs surrounded her
she was like a withering poem with no rhyme.
A tear accompanied her thin smile
as I left her at the bar.
Outside a cold wind cut me
and her tear became a scar.
Dans un Café (In a Cafe) [detail] -- Edgar Degas