Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren’t we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don’t say a word,
don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t
understand, they couldn’t, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.
—-
(Posted slightly earlier due to possible internet troubles tomorrow). Hayden Carruth is one of my favorite poets, if for no other reason than he was a badass. Not only was he a badass, he wasn’t a college professor. Impressive for a poet. When I saw him read, he carried an oxygen tank with him. Today I was searching for poems about alcohol, and I realized there’s very few poems about a certain thing: they’re all metaphors for something else or stepping-off points. (The runner-up poem about drinking.)
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