Old Fashioned Fantasy

Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog
the varnished wood paneling on the walls
reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs
in their 1930’s era fixtures hanging overhead
the air perfumed with the familiar scent
of leather, lemon, and lavender
I see you sitting alone at the bar
your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red
You greet me as I seat myself on the stool at your side
The bartender places an Old Fashioned in front of me
identical to your own but for an extra orange slice
as he knows by now that’s the way I like it
I take a sip as you compliment my dress  
before inquiring as to how I’ve been
I tell you nothing’s changed since last we met
or I wouldn’t be here before I notice your glass
is nearly empty and I order you another
I drop the cherry from mine into it as Al Bowlly croons
about a ring around the moon from a gramophone
I can't help but recall how he died in the Blitz
and was buried in a mass grave as if
he had been no one of any consequence
You turn your head to look at me with your
soulful azure eyes as I light a cigarette to ask
once again why I insist on killing myself
I answer you as I have a hundred times
I’m already dying as even you will someday
so what does it matter
All of this is just an absurd fantasy anyway
The real you doesn’t know me
to give a damn what I do