Standing now leaning on the oak bar with the brass plaques
bearing the names of patrons
just like me who are now dead quaffing another stoli and tonic and looking
at the bartenders
in their identical tan jackets
who move between the racks of booze
in a choreography
of reluctant serviceand there is a sculpture by rodin
at the end of the bar depicting
two boxers from the 1890s
with bare knuckles in a fighting pose
that isn't designed so much to hurt but to show honor and I flip the plastic swizzle stick expertly launching the wrinkled lime out of my glass
and onto the monogrammed napkin
and Michael the bartender looks over
at me and nods his approval as
the cigar smoke curls lazily upward
and then disappears into the draft
from the door that opens onto the frigid street in midtown with its
bright lights and I look outside for a
moment and remember the cactus and the
granite and wonder how the hell did I
get from Westwood to here.
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