Awaiting the Deal
A woman plays soft jazz at the piano,
and I am here to meet night rising,
afloat on expectation and prosecco,
closing eyes in hope that the
evening ahead leads toward
a tomorrow unlike any of
thousands already known.
Already wondering if I can forgive
the haze of disappointment
that inevitably follows, like seeing
that news anchor without her makeup
reaching for a quart of milk
in the wee hours of morning,
a strange disheveled ghost.
I managed then the stone faced
denial of recognition, pretending
to be polite stranger saint of
24/7 grocery store aisle, he who
sees nothing outside of dreams.
The notes trip pleasantly around
lyrics of a journey in smoky blue,
and already I dread the compromise,
the rib given up for companion,
the taste of forbidden fruit,
the serpent’s clever insinuation.
Sensuality hovers like a promise
as it must, international intrigue
dominating thoughts of conversation,
the silky allure of some foreign
culture’s colorful entreaty.
Reminds me of that sultry
penthouse party at the
pop art icon’s commercial behest,
all the pretty people staring out
in mutual admiration, making
important calls that never
quite connected. I read the pain
in the model’s eyes before realizing
the actual scars that sang out
to millions on tabloid pages.
I understood how such beauty
might drive a madman
over the edge forever.
It’s a world of harsh injustice.
I thanked her for the smile,
but she soon left with another.
At such times, even the familiar
gets lost in fog of impropriety,
and waking with views of the park
seems Technicolor false, another
postcard from someone’s stolen mail,
reality drifting away like those
tiny people out on the street below.
Minor chords invite trepidation,
and I heed their unresolved warnings.
Praying to Gods of blurred boundary,
I ride out elongated hours until dawn,
playing my part, dressed to the nines
with careful designer flair, on my
impresario’s vigil solo, no seconds
in my corner to cajole and encourage
as I mentally recite calculated pitch
and make it sound spontaneous as hell.
This is the curse of my blessing,
the ceaseless stories that form
into a life reflected in shoes well shined.
There’s something sentimental here,
worth your long-term investment,
a nine-part documentary of serious intent.
It will offer heartbreak, tenderness,
and currents of social responsibility
discussed from the safe distance of
your offshore havens, the ones
you’ll swear never ever exist.
Is that woman still playing?
While I was sitting pondering
a special request for luck,
she appears to have vanished.
Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. He cares about the world’s stories.