We’ve
been stuck in this dive, unable to drive, as if in some dream,
a
paling vomit just on the lip like the ghost of a lemon twist—
something, it seems, has been forgotten in
the glass.
It
makes me a little sad, the filthy juice
on the
floor and the sound of whimpering keys when they shake
against
all the others in a jar underneath the spirits.
We’ve
been sitting here staring at the blank spirits
all
bottled up and out of our reach like secret, tiny dreams
huddled
under Stay Sober or Surrender Your Keys, the sign that shakes
like a whispering flag. How unnerving, the way
Barkeep’s eye twists—
polyphemic— while on the floor, the last of
the color fades underfoot, the juice
getting sticky like elbows and the bottom of
my glass.
I wish
the sun would slip its fingers through the
glass
and reach for me like a benevolent spirit.
Should
my sleepy, gray ghost ever find enough juice
to move, cool-handed, as if meeting a
childhood dream
I’ll meet the future the way the night and
morning twist—
but Barkeep, smiling, caps the tins, shakes…
and
Bob, like the frightened poor, is hoarding the last of the peanut shake
and I
am again vaguely wandering the sea in my
glass,
lost
or looking, following the path of
Barkeep’s twists—
beguiling
how Barkeep tinkers with the spirits
like a tiny voice moving quickly, a dream
to the
pale. Everyone’s watching again, like when the juice
spilled
out and its color brightened everything for a while— Was it just juice?—
and
waiting for the miracle, rousing up shake
but
they are lost, whatever little fabricated dreams
he
hoped for. Back to idling in our Ogygian glasses
ashamed
at being given over to such childish spirits.
Like
strands of rope, wet rings twist—
footprints
of old cocktails— like spun legends twist
until
the enthralling pulp of that juice
is no
more a memory. We are all fallen to the fiery spirits.
Better
to pull the lid over the glazed glass
by: L. Raymond Andrews
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