A Lonely Bar in a Heat Wave

Dear Diary:

105 F in Manhattan
street-heat smells like
garbage

a pub looks good at
2 in the afternoon
cool, dark, empty

one soul sits

the Barmaid
cranes up to see an
already-played soccer game

conversation is long since past

I order a cold draft,
pretend interest in soccer

“I’ll be over there soon,”
the lone soul offers.

“Where?” I bite.
The barmaid looks down from her game.

“Ireland,” he says.

“No kidding.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” says the barmaid, like,
what’s the big secret?

“Well I ain’t too happy ’bout goin’.
21 people, 10 days,
tourin’ around in a bus.
I get carsick, you know?”

How’s this guy who likes to sit alone in a bar at 2 in the afternoon ever going to make it for 10 days with 21 people?

I want to tell him not to go.
I say, “What you gonna see?”

“Castles, green grass. The
Blarney stone, I guess.”

My look says:
You’ll go crazy.

The barmaid shakes her head,
still miffed he saved his big tell for a
stranger.

“I hear if you wear a blindfold
you won’t get carsick.”

Now he looks at me like
I’m crazy.

“Tour Ireland
wearing a blindfold?”

“Well - will you enjoy it if you’re sick?”

I pay for my cold beer,
wish him good luck,
her good bye

heads roll up to the soccer game

back to brick-oven streets, stained doorways
and overfilled trash, I think:
That conversation wasn’t so bad.

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