You

                                 Your name was
                                 Carley                            

                                 You were our
                                 waitress.

                                 I did not
                                 tell you 

                                 you were beautiful.
                                 Your short, hugging

                                  skirt, barely
                                  below your hips,

                                  exposing cheeks
                                  as you bent to

                                  serve drinks,
                                  said enough about that subject.

                                  I told you
                                  I was going to write

                                  a poem about you.
                                  You said you look forward

                                  to reading it. I said
                                  you never will,

                                  and with nothing else,
                                  drank my moscata

                                  (Italy). I gave a tip
                                  as I exited the bar

                                  far from home.