New Poems
Open Mic at Shades of Green
I’m too old for this place.
I order another drink anyway.
Tired of the poets, I sit at the bar
talking to the Irish tourist
who's 40 years younger
and mad at her husband
for reasons I can’t comprehend.
Just then Dave brings me a drink
he got from the other bartender
by mistake. The Irish tourist
likes me even better.
He’s not my boyfriend, I explain,
but she doesn’t believe me
and invites me back to the hotel.
No thanks, I say. I’m here for the poetry.
That’s too bad, she says. I agree.
Do you know Patrick Kavanaugh,
she asks. Can’t say I’ve met him,
but there was a night a few years
ago, when high on mescaline
with 2 younger coworkers we
listened to a recording and laughed
our heads off. Almost literally.
My name is called.
I walk to the stage.
Read a poem about
my sister’s suffering.
A smattering of applause.
The tourist is gone.
Long walk across Manhattan.
Train to New Jersey.
Dreams of immortality.