The man at the bar

The man at the bar

Sporting carefully tousled hair

And tortoiseshells

Held a book by Chekov

It was the ‘Three Sisters’

He turned the pages slowly

His eyes drifting up

Over his glasses

To the woman in the seat

Next but one

She played with the sword

In her cocktail

He saw her

As the lady in the lake

Although the pub was no Avalon

Perhaps he was Lancelot

Or the once and future King

Looking for his Excalibur

To bring order

To his chaos

Finally, he noticed

The book he held was upside down

And blushing,

Carefully readjusted

Praying quietly to the gods

His bluff had gone unnoticed

He was a literary man

A man of letters

His patience would

Be rewarded

And her satanic majesty

With a sweep of her

Slim fingered hand

Would release him from the curse

Of inveterate bystander

Sidekick and ne'er-do-well

Raise him up

From dreamer of low standing

To the level of gentleman

Not a player

But a genuine contender

For her hand

He would wear her favor

Become her champion

Her Lancelot

Her Othello

Without the jealousy

The winner takes the prize

Unless she is a heartless demigod

With a futures portfolio

Wanting a profit not prophet

Whilst harbouring

An Orwellian newspeak

Apple Mac belief

In ending and not mending.