The white way, shining, enormous,
isolates travelers
like figures in an architect’s model.
We shuffle on moving sidewalks.
Recorded voices drone and die away.
“Smoking is allowed only…
sidewalk is coming to an end...
bags will be removed...”
A small sign, “Cocktails,”
with a neon martini-glass --
that international symbol,
recognizable to all.
Let us edge inside the door.
There -- a cram of people,
talking and laughing, all their bags
piled against the window:
men and women in suits,
backpackers from Europe,
a leathered biker with a bandana;
a big woman with a pretty face
smoking hard at the bar;
a woman in khakis and purple sneakers
with three tennis rackets
slung over her back;
a clutch of Texans in their hats;
a tee-shirt explaining
Michael Jordan’s ability
to overcome gravity.
The room pulses.
Let us order our bourbon.
We will tip the jolly Vietnamese bartender,
and settle against the wall,
lighting our cigarette and giving
a light to our neighbor,
and gaze at our fellows
with benign feelings.
It’s a gentle mangle of
human voices—
Asian, Spanish, Midwestern,
Texan, Street, Philly, Norfolk.
We’ll have a second, and shut our eyes
and let the voices and conversations
wash over us. It’s like a bath,
like bathing in phonemes.
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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