bought this monster about 30 years ago at a church bazaar and lugged it home by public transit, for the next few days after my arms were about six inches longer than usual.
this is one of the poems of mine to be published in the upcoming anthology of the Mariposa Writers Group November 2011
In the Bar
we stand behind our high chairs at the bar
like matadors ready for something new
the women come in & go out
or wait they watch we look
our conversation about them
or not rating losing all ability to think
derailed when one beauty
or another walks past
we drink too much it is almost enough
the game is on the TV
suspended 15 feet above our heads.
you have a toy bet with one of the waiters
just for $25 a sliver of distraction
beyond the glass wall the taxis slide north
the snow falling harder in diagonal stripes.
“another day in paradise” you say, and then
“you have to share the love.”
I think about the meaning of something
as I always do and remember what I said before
“eveyone in their mind is eighteen forever
no matter what lies our bodies tell us.”
I remember when we were young
and knew better at least we thought we did.
then you start talking about God
and eternity then take out your cell phone
to see the number of your latest call
and I start to laugh because we are not killing time
we are out playing drinking talking smoking
laughing being a little stupid & more bitter
than the lemon on the asshole’s bottle of Corona
standing next to me who keeps asking me about golf.
I look past to last week & the young blonde
we talked with in here & her girlfriend who was going
to New York City to act & wasn’t pretty enough
but the blonde was & when she slipped off her
black leather suit jacket my eyes fell on her bare
shoulders her twenty-four-year-old honey skin
that led past the gold chain & locket
to the tops of her breasts & she laughed
& it was summer & I was over there
& had been swimming for a long time & my muscles
my back & legs
& arms hummed quietly
over & over again the same curved line
the pure curved line
in the sun that was nothing
not magic not thought not any damned thing
my body tired with the sweet
tired of play without
my mind turning over the pieces of the mechanism
like the old watchmaker I have become
never dreamed I
would go directly there my life
and I knew absolutely that my lips would
never slide to the nape of her neck
and only the last thought was in her head too
she drank dry martinis until the guy showed up
she had been waiting for who ignored us politely
he was dressed exactly like a magazine advertisement
the ink still wet she talked to two other guys
to keep him in the right state of balance
we watched him panting for her for an hour
he hid it brilliantly & they left
for a party or something you drank scotch doubles
I switched back to beer you won the bet in overtime.
at last my taxi driver & I did not speak about God.
the snow fell harder & harder making
the streetlights & the Christmas lights
very very pretty.
a brief look back over the week
- dialysis has been smooth the past week
- the bad ulcer on my left heel in the achilles tendon zone is slowly healing
- I did some extra walking to get the photos of the proposed industrial development opposite Ste. Marie Among the Hurons (see previous post) this week and I paid for that over the next few days.
- my weight remains a match for my university days more than 35 years ago
Ste. Marie Among the Hurons on the Wye River, Midland, Ontario, a photo by William J. Gibson, the Canuckshutterer on Flickr.
apparently Midland, Ontario is looking at putting an industrial development very close to the right bank of the Wye River
Martyrs Shrine is across the highway from this spot, behind me and over my left shoulder. It celebrates the Jesuit Martyrs who lived and worked at Ste. Marie in the 1640s.
Ste. Marie is a major historic site.
Surely there is another site to put a fabric recycling plant.