Perhaps the title of a B-movie
half-watched through fogged3D shades
by lovers petting in the balcony.

She halts his hands as he tries to hike up her skirt
past the safety zone
her sharp rebuke echoes through the dark
his body throbs with frustration’s bitter sting.

Trader Vic’s 1956, my mother is the redhead
at the end of the bar. You would have noticed her holding court

with her girlfriends, forgettable bottle blondes all
with only carfare home in her evening bag
the game is simple and always the same: She will not pay
for drinks all night:
Hey Red, what’s your poison?

Nothing is sacred in a tiki bar
a bastardized blend of Pacific ports
the Scorpion Bowls flow like waterspouts off the Fiji coast
and rum and rum and rum
the only substance strong enough to purge away the grit
of March in New York City
and top it with a fresh gardenia.

He does not know she is only16
He does not know she has snuck out of the house
He does not know she is inventing Holly Golightly
as they sit there and he lights her cigarettes.

She tells him she is studying with Uta Hagen,
She tells him she is Nicky Hilton’s third cousin
She tells him she is working the5:00 AM Pan Am flight
to Los Angeles
and still needs to iron her uniform
so she can’t go home with him.

It’s a school night
at last call she and the blondes catch the train back to Queens
a triumphant bouquet of white blossoms in her hands
her gait, a regal and elegant wobble.