Decade of Origin

I’m no longer
a Manhattan with rye,
the suit with one sugar cube, or
the skirt

garnished with a cherry. I’m no longer
eligible to mix
it up on the East Coast. But
visits taken black

filled to the brim
still carry me home.

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.

All this talk of the source, the head,
convergence
of three ecosystems—not

to mention bog. I’m here to ask
what about
the middle where we’ll find you

stirring our liquid footprints
with yours to concoct

a cocktail to be drunk
by those waiting at the mouth
to be served.