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                                    Daniel Saalfeld

Wheels roll to a parking space close to the bar
with dressy drinkers. A beer and a Scotch

are drunk with a woman’s rum and cokes.
Above the dark wood floor, her British

luxuriates. Leather soles cross cobblestones.
Silk Cut cigarettes from London lie on a coffee

table’s glass top. Off her bronzed Italian-
vacation skin, musky perfume varnishes my torso.

Cars below hum along a foggy canal.
Morning is served late by a diplomatic blond

bumblebee who sits on a cushioned throne,
painting her nails, making big, malleable jokes.

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