by Victor H. Bausch

It is 1967 and all the bars
in Yokohama look the same.
For over two hours
you've been nursing drinks
in the dim light
trying to forget Vietnam.

When she sits next to you
you're so far
into a back-home reverie
you don't even know she's there.
She speaks fluent English,
buys you another beer,
asks you to slow dance.

She senses your innocence
knows you've been
with only a few women,
offers her body as home.
Later she teaches you
how to please a woman,
transposes pleasure for pain.

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