Stockings (rewrite of a poem originally written around 1974)

She wears stocking as if she
was all leg, slick, black hose
going the whole way up -- and
I can look no where else--
like a road sign point me
to the place I want to go
most -- no GPS needed -- just
nerve to make a move
I see her here every night
the band plays, an icon of
the Red Baron Lounge, as
regular as the bartenders, who
punch in and punch out -- she
wearing a too-tight top and
skirt that outlines
her in my mind, just enough
touch of breast for
my imagination to fill in.
I always want to buy her
a drink and think of a thousand
clever lines I might drop in
her ears, lines she never
hears about the roar of guitar
she's come for
And I watch those stockings
shimmer as she makes her
way out with one guitarist
or another, and I tell myself
it will be me the next time.