She drinks the cold coffee chased with water
and stares into her hand, convincing it to calm.
A drunk trombone wheezes like her father
walking up a flight of stairs at dawn.
She sang and danced wearing an urgent shirt
and hole-riddled jeans and Bobby ordered
another gin drink, one part booze one part balls to flirt
with her through the smoke-bordered
bar. Neither had a loaded gun
or American flag decal slapped on their foreheads
but you could tell whose soldier-story won
their expressions instead.
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