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 this 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 a saloon

packed with diehards  and tourists

to enter his writing place

where he could confer directly

with the spirits themselves

who told him that

job one is

to pack away

all the fine silk memories

into a well-traveled steamer trunk

like a backstage dresser

in a Fred Astaire movie

armed with

smelling salts. 

or a flask of bath tub gin

depending on what the emergency is.

To which he responded

“I’ll have a little of both,”

And then he ordered another round

which gave him the courage

to reach out

and hold her hand.