McSorley’s

 

They were friends at that point

shoot the shit confidantes

hoisting ale shots at McSorley’s

as rain splattered the windows

like Pollack paint 

and sawdust added extra pulp 

to their fiction.

When she asked him 

kind of casual, kind of not

why ghosts keep showing up

in his poetry

like the milky incandescence of

long dead relatives,

evaporated friends,

and femme fatales

who lowered the standards of his heart to that very moment.

He gave it a thought

a seconds long inventory at best

and answered:

I don’t know, what do you think?

She looked at him

like she just solved a whodunnit

and said

I think it’s about hope

which stole his breath

like a Times Square pickpocket

and moved him to tears like 

the first time he heard

Piaf sing “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

which guaranteed him safe passage

right there in the saloon

with its ususal crowd

of diehards and tourists

to enter his writing place

where he conferred briefly

with the spirits 

who told him 

to pack his memories 

into a well-traveled steamer trunk

like a backstage dresser

in a Fred Astaire movie

and head for the ship

that was bound for Marseilles

And then he ordered another round

and noticed the clouds had parted

and she was lit by the sun

which gave him the courage

to reach out

and hold her hand.