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Most afternoons, with wind chimes gently jangling,

He sits out on his deck in a porch swing—

The man with the martini.

What’s on his mind?

 

He sips then sets the glass down, contemplating something.

In the background, finches and nuthatches sing—

The man with the martini.

I’m familiar with his kind.

 

They imagine themselves back in the Sixties;

He’s probably an artiste.

A book writer, painter or poet, imagining himself

Greater when he’s really from the least—

The man with the martini.

He’s no better than me.

 

He saves the olives for last, slowly savoring

The end of his liquid feast.

Then he gets up, disappearing behind a closed door,

Apparently pleased—

The man with the martini

Holds the key.

photo and poem by S.A. Bort / 21 May 2016

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