CYAN JAMES

the honky tonk blues bar

We hear from here the water just
under the music, a white-lipped roar
glass under gaslights, rolled-up sleeves
a man’s tending in the corner over
something hard in the cups

a wake, no, we’re alive, we snap
planks, thumbs stubbed against the levy
Dance, I ask, dance—dance with me
I take lapels into my own hands,
dole salt winks on my man’s shoal

trade corn-liquor breath and hang
contra-swing, and when you keel
over and beat heels to the floor,
and feel wood flat under your cheek,
hear under pilings pure pure river  

   Contributor’s notes