by Christopher Blackman
What a feeling! the Solari board above the bar
fluttering into itself, renewed
with the hour of our eventual departure
in this holy place, the Moynihan Hall,
a place for serious people such as ourselves,
we who crowd the bar at twelve and one,
rolling suitcases beside us like our squires,
as we of new faith rattle off the names
of the new saints, and the newly venerated:
Our Lady of Perpetual Delay, of Insolvent Trust,
Saint Seagull of Pizza Slice,
each of them present in this gray moment
as my glass, having been empty, is filled again,
the board having granted me time
for another round in the manner I was taught
by an opera singer, by my uncle, the divorce attorney,
when I was a younger man,
and so I maintain their traditions. I observe
the ritual, whispering vermouth
into otherwise gin and let that be the end of it.
______
Christopher Blackman is a poet from Columbus, Ohio. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Lana Turner, The Kenyon Review, DIAGRAM, Soft Union and other publications. His book of poems, Three-Day Weekend, was longlisted for the 2025 Mass Book Awards. He lives near Boston.
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