Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

Her top half swayed as if charming the music,
her wanton hair sashayed across her face
revealing only the rouged essentials.

She smiled at the clink of coins in her cup,
drew back her lips from stained teeth
just far enough for thanks. She took requests,

but we were locked in reticence. Squirming
on our bar stools with the effort to be cool,
we preferred the safety of our fantasies.

Snow, heavy with spring, slapped at the window.
Chained tires rumbled out of sight across the night
like the gears and levers of Oz,

and the Hammond's electric notes wobbled
with romance. In our adolescent dreams
we were fools who made everything fresh.

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.