no kilkenny on tap, ‘cause this ain’t Montreal
whose streets flood with mordant joy
but a colder, deeper Bowery pub
any old dark pint will do, set down
and simmering cold, the first heady sip
like waking up at 8pm with the whole of
Friday night ahead with so little to follow
but a mile-wide weekend fermenting with
traveled friends touching down for a midnight
riot of jazz excitement pounding the floor
ecstasy beats rising through legs like sunflowers
on fire and shivering for the sun to love—
yeah, that kind of jazz, not dancing, just feeling
eternal through the bones, dark beer through
the veins, electricity talking high back and forth
dark night madness of friends who never met
and no, this isn’t Montreal, but some nights
don’t need northern comforts, just a pool
room clacking in a background fever and beer
and thoughts about poetry seeping into the
conversation, not spoken, just known
in the background and saved for later when
the lights go out and the feet beat against cold
cement sidewalks, no more jazz, no friends
just the long walk home on a Sunday night
with a pocket full of notes and eyes full of moon
dreaming of dark beer riots and dying a little
each day until waking up Friday night, 8pm again