Happy Hour in Purgatory
The city I left bobs, a neon cherry afloat
in a galaxy of gin. The swizzle
of the subways and the lime
of the homeless, the moon
shine seen in the bottom of a well
drink, drunk in one gulp.
The city of bob, palindromic
and dyslexic in its obsessive back
and forth. Preening yet benighted
as if trapped in an arcade shooting
range, a target of revolving ducks
unaware that the Lord
of the Flies is on his way
with a pocket full of change.
It is always happy hour in purgatory
where the city I left is bobbing
in the celestial barkeep’s tumbler,
the pike of a toothpick piercing its flank
as if it was Saint Maraschino
about to be crucified.
Published in Pacific Review