LOGART'S DATE.

A MAN GETS READY FOR A DATE.

Logart pulls his tie to a neat stop
At the collar of his shirt. He stares
At himself in the mirror. His face
Beginning to show lines. Aging
Creeps up on you. His hair has the
Odd grey strand. He lifts his chin,
Rubs the back of his hand against it.
No bristles, nothing to harm the girl’s
Skin. If kisses come, that is. She’s no
Goddess, but better than some of
The dames, he’s been with in recent
Times. He licks a fingertip, brushes
Along an eyebrow. God’s gift, he
Once thought. He smiles. Some
While ago that may have been.
Aftershave. Yes, not too strong.
He moves from the mirror, picks
Up his jacket from the bed. He puts
It on, buttons it up. He checks all
The pockets. Wallet, keys, phone.
Yes, all there. He once left some
Dame’s panties in a pocket by mistake
 And pulled them out to wipe a brow
On an earlier date. The dame on that
Date walked out that night. He brushes
Off the shoulders of the jacket for hairs,
Dandruff and other hints of mortality.
He closes his eyes. He can picture her
 In his mind now. This almost goddess.
Slim, tall, a figure to die for, lips to kiss.
Whether he will get her to the bed and
Make love, doesn’t enter his head. Not
Just yet. Any takers? He asks his black cat
Sitting at his feet. Want a bet? The cat
Just stares, walks around his legs, wants
To be fed. Logart smiles. Time to feed
The cat and leave. There’s a small beating
Heart hanging from his jacket’s sleeve.