… you are back to where you are, utterly.
—Max Frisch
A basement bar is closing up—
people climbing the steps into streetlight pink.
In the darkness upstairs,
couples hold each other as they sleep,
or they sleepwalk to the kitchen,
open the fridge for a glass of milk.
Light spills out
the open back of an ambulance
double-parked across the street.
Three crewmen taking a break on the bumper,
laughing at a joke
that died on its way to the hospital . . . .
The white space behind them—
a luminous pantry
storing the instruments that one day may save
or fail to save your life.
Acknowledge them with a cursory nod,
the casual air of a museum patron
examining the artifacts he’s helped acquire.
Knives that are barely knives, stones
worn smooth as if by water.
Then it’s back to that earnest aimlessness—
the walk home after the party—
drowsily running your fingers along an iron fence.
Resigning to this body, this darkness,
—and the faith that it will carry you home
still humming the song
that’s been stuck in your head.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.