When the first line of this poem came to me, I thought it would be a great title for a short story. (Maybe it will be?). By the way, isn’t there a Harry’s Bar in every city in the world?
Fiction
He was a fiction character.
I knew him long before
I met him down at Harry’s
(third table, by the door).
I knew that he’d wear glasses,
have an earring, and be tall,
and as I approached the table
he wouldn’t speak at all.
But the eyes behind his glasses
would unnerve me, and I’d fall
head over heels.
We’d share a coffee,
a few kisses, promise to call…
The good thing about fiction is,
it hardly hurts at all.
Poolside Laureate 