Old Fashioned Fantasy

Sauntering into the pub from out of the fogthe varnished wood paneling on the wallsreflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbsin their Art Deco fixtures hanging overheadthe scent of the air a mix of lavender, lemon, and leatherI see you sitting alone at the bar as you always areyour hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of redYou greet me as I seat myself on the stool at your sidethe bartender placing an Old Fashioned in front of meidentical to your own but for an extra orange sliceas he knows by now that’s the way I like itI take a sip as you compliment my dressthen inquire as to how I’ve been since last we metI tell you nothing’s changed or I wouldn’t be hereNoticing your glass is nearly empty I order you anotherdropping the cherry from mine into it as Al Bowlly croons about a ring around the moon from a gramophoneI recall how he was killed in the Blitz and buriedin a mass grave as if he was no one of any consequenceYou gaze at me with your azure eyes as I light a cigaretteasking once again why I insist on murdering myselfI answer you as I have a hundred times beforeI'm already dying as even someone as celebrated as you will someday so what does it matter This is all simply an absurd fantasy anywayThe real you doesn’t know me or give a damn what I do