No Sleep till Brooklyn

What a privilege to be
in a booth by herself. What a message 

to send in a bottle
filled with air. What a color 

to believe in
when the photo turns 

out dark. What eyes
to feel upon her. What a shock 

to see boxers on a large screen
TV behind the bar. What 

a relief not to be teetering
on the edge 

of a wooden floor. What a sound
her heart makes 

when she recognizes how long
it’s been since she needed 

to identify the name of a cocktail—ingredients
weighing her down 

cellar steps to irrelevance.

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