If there are angels
I hope they stay awake
when the band has played all night
& the near bartender is running out of ice
& the bartender with red lipstick
might not be an angel, but might
be one, who knows, while one
other possible angel sits
so very straight with her warm
glass of wine & she seems to
be listening closely to my practiced line
of bullshit, she listens without
comment save a nod so I talk
faster & faster
& she runs her manicured
index finger around & around
the rim of her glass until I want
to reach over & stop that finger
but I don’t
of course
she might be a fallen angel
& glad to strike me dead.
In a corner booth, denimed, she
might be an angel
& asks for bourbon whiskey
straight up, nothing else,
only a large block of ice
which cries itself to death,
a promise glass of amber turning
to straw while my glass has a
sweet residue from the kiss my bartender
planted on one cheek,
then the other, a French or Italian
affection for a mongel,
mostly British
excuse of a traveller, me.
In other times I may have been an
armorer or smith, fond of hammers,
anvils and thin steel.
Oh, the many ways to clothe a king,
duke, prince or a knight. Like chess
pieces the armed nobility moved in
mostly predictable ways. Some
invested in Crusades, others in wool,
barges of uncured hides or dank
basements filled with wine.
It takes years to make wine and a bellyful to
get a royal buzz on. Better to run beer
though a fire & catch the whisky
from a copper worm. Let the
angels have the first breath.
Add enough mostly safe water
& wait awhile. Twelve years.
Every distiller
has a recipe & some have
the patience of saints or angels,
or a winged benefactor
sitting on a barrel.
Those without
find solace in the relative
safety of the alley, debate
whether to walk or call a cab
& whether the angels of
bad choices
offering a light & cigarette
will point the way.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who lives in California. His book of poetry, skeeter bit & still drunk was published by Finishing Line Press.