At Linneman’s
RiverWest
with McKenzie,
my firstborn,
who is somehow of age,
beautiful, and strong,
despite it all –
we’re just one drink in,
waiting for her boyfriend Zach to play,
when I hit the ladies’ room —
“I’m comin’ out!” the lady in the half-open stall shouts
and so I pee behind the imperfectly locked door of the other stall
while I listen to her humming and talking to herself
and then walk out, she is still talking
to everyone, to no one,
dreadlocks pointing everywhere and nowhere
as her purse, full of mail, or newspapers, or bills, or maybe some
sort of manifesto, not haphazard but
like a file cabinet crossed with an accordion,
orderly perches in the one sink like a satisfied cat
only she is not
washing her hands, and so then I am not, either
but stand there for a moment to see if she will
pick up her purse or whether a Gryffin or mail-carrier
or mouse will crawl out of it, but as it is she just stands there,
letting her conversation flow around us like water
and eventually like an island I think who am I kidding
anyway, I don’t always wash my hands,
and walk out into the darkened bar
where glasses clink and the last performer wraps up a song
about his brother who’d do anything for anyone except that he’s just
died, and the soft glow of phones light up just a few
faces, and the audience poet man finishes his sketch,
and I don’t see her come out of the bathroom
and I don’t think of her again at all
after Zach plays.
Halfway North 