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“What are you doing?”
The two men have been
there awhile, drinking beer. The place is dim and mostly empty.
Too early for the jukebox.
“Writing a poem.”
He looks at his friend briefly, “It’s for a girl.”
“What girl? Are
you going to give it to her?”
“Maybe. You don’t
know her.”
“If I don’t
know her you don’t know her. You’re going to give
a strange girl a poem?”
“She’s not
strange. She’s . . . exquisite.”
“‘Exquisite’.
Cool.” He looks at the bar mirror, woodsy and comfortable,
their common reference at the moment. “What . . . kind
of guy over 30 gives out poems to ‘exquisite’ women?”
“Sincere ones.”
“Weirdos. You’re
becoming a weirdo. An obsessive weirdo.”
“I’m not obsessive.”
The writer puts down his pen.
His friend stares at
the soundless TV news.
“Is it done? Can
I read it?”
“Okay.”
I THINK IT IS VERY WARM OUTSIDe
THE SUN IS HIGH
AT THE TOP OF THE SKY
FIERCE AND PENETRATING
BUT YET I ALSO THINK
THAT IF YOU WERE TO MERELY
WALK OUTSIDE
SIMPLY STAND BY THE CURB
THE BRUTE WOULD LOSE HIS
LUSTER
SHADOWS WOULD DISTINCTLY SHIFT
RADIATING UPWARD AND OUT
FROM WHERE YOU STAND
TREES BENDING
TO FEEL YOUR LIGHT.
I WOULD LIKE TO
SEE THIS
FOR MYSELF
After a bit, the friend
gently passes the bar napkin back like a change in the weather.
“Is she Spanish?”
“What?”
“Is she Spanish?”
“No . . . I don’t
know.”
“You’re not
Spanish but I’m hearing Ricardo Montalban reading this
and it sounds very convincing.”
The writer picks up
his glass, sips, and lands the sweaty pint neatly in the soft
center of a coaster in front of him.
“Convincing.”
“Yeah. Especially
the ‘penetration’ part.”
“‘Penetrating.’
I debated about that but, why lie? Put it out there. The rest
is just as true.”
The friend axes a finger
and raises his eyebrows: “Convincing for Ricardo.”
“She probably doesn’t
know Ricardo. She might as well know me. Whatever. I can’t
do . . . nothing . . .”
“I know. I know.
Do what you want I just think it’s a little heavy.”
“Maybe she’s
into heavy. I kind of hope she is. Even if she’s not
I like the poem on its own, it’s got legs. With more
editing it could go somewhere. It’s inspired.”
For a moment they return
to the mirror, then the friend glances at the dumb TV as the
writer turns toward the sunlight hitting squarely from the
suddenly opened bar door. A handsome young couple come in
and sit down midway between them and the next farthest customer,
settling in and looking stealthily about.
The two men look at
each other reflexively and grin the grin of doom. Their glasses
rise.
“Go where?”
they laugh loudly in unison.
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