this is not the name of this bar
a fall dream
this is not the name of this bar
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that's what the sign said. the
one above the open red enamel door.
it was painted in black gothic
letters, with gilt flourishes,
and i stood beneath it, puzzling
the why of half-open doors
that seem to lead to nowhere, or
at least to places of self-denial.
inside, just three customers
arranged themselves on precarious
stools; two stared at the wall
and drank deliberately. one
prodded ice with a brittle mermaid
and glared at my indecision. from
the tinny jukebox, ella sang about
an old devil moon, while the keep
swiped a rag against the long slide
of counter, over and over
as if polishing up a old lie.
it seemed pointless to enter; why
go to a place so certain about its
own ambiguity? but it was hot,
the indian summer hunkering down,
so i dug for bills and headed on in.
the keep winked at me and handed my
glass, didn't wait for
my order: "we only serve bourbon
here; despite what some think, the
owner has little imagination." i
sat for hours, til the sun no longer
lit the dust motes and contrails of
stale cigarette smoke, wondering
why we sit so edgy in our lives.
a conversation with the mermaid man
proved littled solace: "i don't come
here to understand. i come here to
delay understanding." the jukebox
wailed hank, wailed johnnie, wailed
frank and mel. tired of sitting, i
took the rag from the unresisting hands
of the keep. "i'll take over a while."
he smiled, and headed out the red red
door, into the dark and secret streets.
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