we were in a bar on elmwood avenue

& i was drunk.

it was the middle of the afternoon,

on a sunday, in the summer;

august, i think.

you were talking about bukowski

or kerouac, & how their women

could never be in the great writers’ club,

& i just couldn’t help myself.

i don’t know what started it,

hank’s vanishing self, or jack’s

blood-drunk death

but the tears hit me solid &

i couldn’t stop

not for the frat boys watching baseball at the bar

or for the bartender in tight jeans with a grooved cameltoe

not for the diners and their pleasant meals

or the people hand in hand on the street

not even for you.

i was no good to anyone &

dear i really think something changed

for me that day, some kind of loss set in,

the kind we always just mused about,

& has left me hollow ever since.

because lately i’ve been so lonely,

i just dont know how to say it, except

to write this poem & tell you this:

i’m really sorry i got drunk & cried

on such a nice day.

Here, where

only careful

rhythms of

our words filter

through muffled

sounds at the table,

here, where

my breathing turns

shy, almost a wheeze

while yours grows

more daring, stretching,

no one—everyone—

in the restaurant must notice

these subtle changes.

I allow myself a glance

across your eyes, settled on

mine, then we drift

together to this page.

Doesn’t it feel so right,

composing something

like poetry in the night?

clatter of ice

in glasses

whisper of top shelf cocktails

kitchen’s dinner specials

glide within this room

and across the bar

finds the singer in the corner

She sings standards

songs we all know

but seldom hear

She sits on a stool

dressed in a form-fitting sleeveless

sparkling-black dress

My Funny Valentine echoes from

her buffed-over lips

Her Carole Lombard locks

droop over her brow

and settle across her shoulders

She crosses her black-stocking legs

bounces and smiles out

Sunny Side of the Street

The singer

sits in her corner

slips on her glasses

and hums out

Cry Me a River

patrons drink

some want to smoke but can’t

The patrons clap

after each of Her songs

Are they really listening?

They glance from their conversations

Is her voice the days-end elation

they don’t know they need...