Your name was

                                 You were our

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.