The Guy Lied. Poem by Terry Collett

Max dug brunettes,
but blondes were never
a no-no. That broad in Paris
all over him like a plague,

but cute, and knew her Degas
like he knew booze. Camille
or such like name; cute dame.
Nous avons des relations

sexuelles, she said. It was all
French to him, but her friend
translated, and Max said of
course, and so they did. Max

inhaled his cigarette remembering.
The bar was empty except for
some broad at the far end. He'd
give her talk, but he was too

tired, and besides he knew her
guy, and she'd be poxed. Then
there was the blonde in Hamburg.
Neat dame, nice figure, short on

English words, but got the gist,
showed him around the city,
spoke of her old man, some
former SS, had a stroke, never

spoke. Max dug her deep; made
out for a month or two, then split
after some talk of her sister being
around too much. Max exhaled.

Sipped his beer. The broad at
the far end of the bar smiled.
Max smiled back. She wore black.
Her guy had died. Maybe she'd
not got the pox, maybe the guy lied.