Bobby is singing Hank Williams
one night at Stella’s when this
tall redhead pushes back her barstool and gathers her cell phone and keys.                   

I follow her into the gravel
and ask if she liked the last number.
(It was the only line I had.)
             She turns slowly like maybe
she’s going to draw a can of mace.
I stiffen, coiled to dive behind
the Live Music marquee.           
Yea, she says, blue Hank on a
blue night.
             A small neon Open glows                  
against her skin, an orange lifesaver       
on her arms, neck, high cheekbones.  
Find me another day, she says.
Bring oranges, grapes, a lemon.
Nothing red. Nothing blue.

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