The Bar Maids

They come and go like days of the week,
Some easy to recall
with a prickle of arousal,
others better left undisturbed
in the murky mud of memory.

Hopeful young things from the hinterland
with stars in their eyes, chance call-backs
still a thrill, or out-of-work has-beens
surviving on cat food and a tarnished past.
Occasionally a student of obscure subjects
and one or two professionals, newly jobless,
despairingly directionless

Oh, I had my favourites,
Thelma with her augmented breasts,
the orb unnaturally hard in my palm.  
Bonnie, all boney hips and sass,
she could make me come with just a look.  
Sweet Jenny, missing sleep as she concocting
the next Cocktail du Jour.
All gone, to a better life I hope.