beth was a plain jane, at least I thought so
first time I met her. she was in her skirt-
suit lunching at a diner downtown, her
hair pulled back in a tight librarian bun.
but serendipity had me meeting
her again next weekend at lola’s off
capitol avenue, that little joint
in the alley, where local musicians
riff off each other like it’s still nineteen-
twenty-something and their hole-in-the-wall
a speakeasy — and there was beth dancing
like some gorgeous flapper girl, dressed for it
but with her hair down and flying wild as she
spun and twirled and tripped me into love . . .
David M Pitchford