Around the corner by the place we called
Silverlake, and down from the Cold Cut joint
where sausages hung in the window, Gemma's
swinging door was a Saturday pleasure.
How many times did I hear my father call
my mother to say he would be at Gemmas,
would she please be ready to go out at five.
'Gabby and I are having a few.'
Gabby looked like an old Clark Gable,
boasting of his one long pinky fingernail,
taking down the CC like water, his slicked
back grey hair a tribute to his lifestyle.
A beer, a shotglass of something strong, a game
of cards, someone to hear what no one would listen
to unless he was drunk, and staring at a sign of a young
Betty Grable framed on the wall.
Louise Marie DelSanto
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gemma-s-bar/
