Each note of jazz drips like honeyed tar
as the saxophonist puffs out his cheeks.
To have found so little, I've come so far;
sparring with the same thought for weeks.
I swirl the remains of my drink around
in circles that get smaller and wetter,
stalking a feeling that will not be drowned,
that refuses to go from worse to better.
There's a man at the bar who's been watching -
he paints a picture of me with his eyes.
I won't be a bedpost for his idle notching,
no matter how much he wheedles or sighs.
And though I hate to admit this, it's true:
I am lonely, so lonely, here without you.