What I Liked About Bars

Was the neon invitation, the glow
down the block on a bad night, a tramp’s
hieroglyphic on a likely gate, was the taxi burbling off,
was the way you stamped off snow in the doorway,
careful not to give the wrong impression,
was what the place gave out of someone’s dream,
the photographs, the antlers gathering dust, a ship’s barometer
you tapped for luck, was the clatter of caps and slam of cooler doors,
was the little notes the girls stuck up for each other by the phone
and the way they had with regulars, the teasing interrupted
talk, was knowing they’d always be back to their ashtray
under the bar, was knowing the route exactly
to the can, was the mirror’s doubled bottles, those that ended up
in the back, Aquavit and Metaxa, Galliano, long-necked
and lethal, the bartender’s best friend.

What I liked about bars was the way they shoe-horned
you into the night. Someone you’ve seen before sends over
a drink. Tough night, Terry. Somewhere not far, a woman’s low
distracted laugh. You hear her murmur something, excusing
herself. You wait to hear her voice behind you,
or see her purse as it sags on the bar by your arm.

What I liked was no one pressed you
to look at a tap or take a troubled daughter back
to bed. You couldn’t just go home, your head still rattling over
the one you made at the end or didn’t. Or something some bastard
said from their bench. Bloody Pilote, the way he gets under
your skin. How could you think about riddles and hens
and trains that could when you knew you couldn’t.
Some nights it hurt just to breathe.
Then you had your assholes in the greys.

So here I am again, looking down
into an unfamiliar street. Some things don’t change,
this radiator’s welcome heat, or how the snow begins,
that sparse and aimless swirling past the lights.
And there’s the purse again, collapsed on the floor
like a daughter’s indispensable animal
tumbled off the bed.

“Are you leaving so soon?” I hear her murmur
into her pillows. A draft from an ill-fitting window
stirs a mobile over her bed. “Has it started
snowing yet?” she asks.

But she won’t wake up enough to hear,
even if I answer.