Once, in Greenwich Village, 5 or after,
Saturday fall sun flickering behind
those short roofs west on Houston, their laughter—
those silhouetted ladies’ charm—windchimed
out that narrow bar door. They claimed my glance
through darkened window, first sight mirrored glow
filtering through liquor bottles. Let’s dance!
one smokescarred soprano cawed out. I bowed
my head, wishing she were summoning me,
then shrugged in shame having wished it, knowing
I really craved the old routine: whiskey
sip flowing to lust to maybe crowing
naked at dawn, or drubbed by some bouncer.
I grabbed my cell phone and called my sponsor.
Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2009
