I sat down with four friends at a table in the bar of Little Prague
And in my inebriation, I concocted my own volatile cocktail
Of sambuca and Sierra Nevada while thinking about pairs:
Two brothers; beer and liquor; boss and worker; lovers;
Even left channel/right channel on stereo speakers
And how effortlessly the best resources allow one to manipulate
The volume, the panning, the sound of sound,
To be in full control of one’s craft,
Granted one knows what the hell one’s doing,
And when “Billie Jean” blared from the dance floor stack
I stood up to pay tribute to the late King of Pop.
There, as I kicked, spun and stumbled shamelessly,
I lured you in. I had your attention,
Refusing to simply glance and look away.
No. You stared, or so my wingmen observed
As they sent me away for yet another drink
Or to capitalize on this uncommon opportunity.
So, during a light-hearted exchange at the bar
Of where we’re from, what we do, and what we like,
I noticed how close you already wanted to be.
Even if only to supersede electronic music with chitchat,
Your cheek was pressed against mine
Like a grandson blessing his grandmother,
Wishing her a thousand healthy days,
Keeping her a stone’s throw away
Just in case wishes don’t come true,
Or as if we were two longtime friends reuniting,
Greeting each other as the French do,
avec bisous,
Hoping that our bond holds to the end of time,
Or, perhaps, holding out for something more.
And speaking of longtime friends,
While that friend of yours fucked me over
By taking you aside, offering cautionary words,
Forbidding you to return to the moment we made,
She let me see how minimally I’m in control of my own craft,
How little I know what the hell I’m doing,
Because if I was a man of tireless effort
And had tried just the slightest bit harder to keep you close,
The person leaning on you, cupping hand around mouth,
Shouting “Let’s go someplace else!” into your ear
Could just as easily have been me.
