She ran through the room

Showing the tattoo on the small of her back

That place men find soft,

Perfect for hands while dancing,

And kisses in lovemaking.

Others lovelies enter the room,

Searching for seats.

Why do the pretty ones always have their backs to the room?

Maybe it’s my imagination

Or my stare,

Or the stare of my fellow barflies.

Rebuked, I stew a bitter conclusion;

Beauty doesn’t want to be watched…

Originally written Sept 18, 1997

Note: I suspect this is part of some inebriated conversation I had with The Welshman, a fellow storyteller who always introduced himself the worlds best liar. At least, that’s what my notes seem to indicate. I almost always had a title for such musings, so I guess I must have originally spun this under a nasty name.

From my Madrid files on the Pub Storytellers nights. Where an eclectic group of expats, troubadours, and assorted, sodden wordsmiths gathered twice a week to share a few pints, tell many tall tales, and lessen our loneliness at our favorite Irish Pub in Madrid, Spain, back in 1997-98. I kept my scribbles from these nights and the poems that grew out of the stories I told. This is the first time I’ve ever published these. I hope you enjoy them.

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