Broadway and Bleecker. Northeast corner. Noon.
Weekday. Striding to a meeting, I pause
in summer heat. Gaze at my reflection
in McEerie’s window. I hear applause
in my head, shouts of how I’m looking good.
Suddenly my image darkens. My eyes
stare past me to the bar. He’s drooling food,
greasy semi-liquid swarming like flies
on his worn, gray Jimi Hendrix sweatshirt,
dead guitarist’s red-ink profile fading
to pink. The guy gawks toward me, face absurd
parched clay, eyes lost in flashing, cascading
electroshock. He guzzles down a beer.
It’s ’91. A year ago, I’m there.
Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2008
