Mondays back at the bar, I flinch to see the wrong bartender's back turned to me, the one who doesn't know how to sink into East Village congeniality, who doesn't know how to remember a drink order. You instruct the pour, at least he plays White Stripes, at least your seat in the corner is free, you hear yourself tell a doctor that things are pretty good, the devastation of 48 hours back like a stumble you might expect, like an expression of your clumsy charm. But isn't that what it is? Aren't we all made of bits of crooked corners, bits of flowering fields? The bartender plays Hotel California and you have to try to forgive him. You always made it miles on a tank of sunshine, when bitter lemons would stutter and stop after the first corner.
The clock behind the bar is forever set to 9:41. You try to remember a time when you felt magic, when you felt like a stopped clock hinted at whimsy, you believe it can still be there just underneath your skin and if you could only set a spark to your nerve endings, you could set this whole town on fire.
You came here smoldering,
don't forget,
you came here ready to
become.
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