I miss Daisy.
She used to be out here
with her clove cigarettes
and her sharp words
and, when she had time,
she’d ask what I’d been up to
even though
she had little reason to care.

She was untenably gorgeous
and smart as her outfits:
long tight skirts
wisps of shirts
and bangles and beads
that must have made it harder to tend bar
but made the process all the more enjoyable
to watch.
I loved the moments I could spend with her
away from the bustling barroom.
They were too few.

She’s not around anymore.
Daisy found better things to do
or richer people to serve
or maybe she got sick
of the puppydog eyes
of so many sad little customers.
Not every perfect flower
wants to be stared at
every fucking day of their lives
so sometimes,
they just get picked.