Maybe


	ERIC GREEN
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MAYBE

There is an object somewhere,
A part of you since birth,
You always know where it is
Like a compass to north;
Your father held it fondly for years
In his since dead hands as you fondle it
Now, your palms across the patina of
Wood or metal or hide. For
You have enshrined it with the sense
That somehow within, is the wisdom of
All that you long for and
All you have let pass by.

Allow me a bar as a sanctum,
Where the neon torments quietly
With its lazy bent beauty and
The beer sign turns so slowly
It almost stills the beating heart;
The bar back lies so calm in darkness
Like all twice-fucked lovers,
The barman so coolly cordial,
The barmaid so coolly sensual,
And the forever jukebox thumps out
Those same moist, drying songs as
We order again and again:
"Oh, so hard to leave,
So easy to stay . . ."
The booth wood firm against the back,
The body seeps languid with the clock,
For here the door might open to eternity
An angel gliding in from the mist,
Or be closed again with certainty
As the finished leave for home.

But maybe against all odds,
My lost father will walk
Through this barroom door,
And I'll nod to the barman
Who will know my father's drink,
And I'll place into my father's hand
The object--carefully preserved
And tenderly polished--
And my dad will smile.