Chicano Poet

Monday, January 31, 2005

Fern Hill Bar

Mr. Bones is plastered
while Henry and Dylan
talk business,

but their eyes are glowing, too.
In a bar in New York City
they deal

with flesh and blood.
A slender, pretty woman
sits on a stool,

crossing and re-crossing her legs,
no doubt showing off her calves
which the trio would caress

with little or no encouragement.
Dylan talks in metaphors
that the ear and eyes

accept with no struggle.
Henry stabs an olive
and the toothpick sparks

a wooden spark.
They drink until
the wee hours of the morning.

The moon hangs around
rounding out the bar rotund.

Dylan pulls off his shoes,
new socks Caitlin bought him
appear on the wooden floor,

the great poet scribbles
a new poem,
the words reach up and grab his hand,

but the poet shakes them off,
intent upon
his own direction.

Mr. Bones plays
with the woman,

her brunette hair shines
even in the poor light of the bar,
her smile spins as she throws back her head.

The night goes black,
on black, on black,
until you can’t tell the difference.

Mr. Bones puts the cube of chalk
in his hand and then
puts the same hand in his pocket,

he notices the small mole
just above her lip,
his mind shrinks to that size

as if to explore
a heretofore unknown
heavenly body.