Backtrack

I’m not walking all that way,
back to the bent tree
where I left behind
my jacket.
There is a woman
playing piano
in this little bar,
and the smokey
air is warm enough
for me at least.
Her fingers twist
like spider legs
over a marble floor
as she coaxes out
the ancient song,
the old folks likely
couldn’t say the name of.
A muted T.V. with a curved
glass screen displays
old footage of warships
in black and white.
It cut to an interview
with a soldier
and he wore exactly
the same coat
I last saw dangle from
the branches
thirteen drinks ago.
I close my tab
and push a five
into the empty glass
on the piano,
and do my best
to keep my eyes off her.
She’s been a good sport
all night, and I have no time
left with all this road
ahead of me.