It’s one of those days. Walking through Greenwich
Village, I must stop every block, check store
windows for my reflection, feel slight twitch
in my cheek, heartbeat’s pace, deep breathe before
I realize I’m still here. Old demons
have sneaked back in, whisper need for relief,
recall favorite bars’ sweet lights and fun,
ignore past patterns as liar and thief
who’ll crush friends' and lovers’ hearts for drink’s sake.
I watch my face in McEerie’s pane glass,
hear some nice guy within me: A mistake
to go in there. Death knell. This too shall pass.
I move away. Yet a voice like Barney
the barkeep keeps calling, What’ll it be?
Roger Armbrust
January 2, 2010
