To Sit in a Lounge

not a disco, and not the kind of “lounge”

that is really a roadside bar,

or one filled with ferns

from the nineteen eighties,

but a real, not-on-the-Vegas-strip

where some slightly overweight guy

sits at an old fashioned electric organ

and plays music somewhere

between background and theme.

Nobody sings, and some people probably

sip martinis and Manhattans, I never did,

I overpay for a glass of wine, or diet and rum,

til I tire of alcohol and switch to coffee,

and they have pretty good coffee.

The organ music was the thing,

that and the lighting, not dark,

like a dive bar, but subdued,

and the colors ivory and black

with gold accents, not bright gold,

more old rubbed gold and if I am lucky

the booths are upholstered in the shade

of olive green my dad’s Naugahyde recliner

was in nineteen-sixty-five.

We would sit and talk

when the music wasn’t too loud,

and then just relax when he decided

the whole bar needed to focus

on this verse or that, still no singing,

as words would ruin the moment.

There were places,

where someone would sing,

but it was never the same.