SIRENS & SAILORS, OPEN LATE

Sirens & Sailors. Open Late!

the sign says

but I see only the sailors, unsteady. Still

on their sea legs, peering with a beachcomber’s

eye into the wainscoted anterooms

with their faux cherrywood chairs

for a mer-creature worthy

enough to tempt them, a sinuous live-wire

of flesh worthy enough to take off

their rings for.

But upon seeing

only themselves and their cankerous raisin hearts

reflected in the Bavarian beer signs,

they sit and tell me everything.

And while the hurricane thrashes

itself into a breeze round The Pour House,

we sail on the splintering jibs of our memories out

passed the shoals on waters fermented and fuming

until we catch the currents of where we’ve been

and where we would want to go again,

if only the currents, fickle as any siren,

would take us back.