by Gary Leising
The bartender snorted at the bearded man’s order,
then mixed a drink with sans rum, sans liqueur,
despite historical reservations. This evening,
his older colleague told him, stacking plates,
is about getting close, being near the real thing.
The khaki-backed man who ordered the impotent drink
and sipped it then sucked on its ice, would never win—
his beard too thin, his stomach too toned. Other than
when he ordered, no one heard him speak a word.
He had filled in the form and paid his fees
and was entitled to step on stage and earn his cheers.
But when his name was called he merely raised a hand
to wave. The iceberg principle of competition,
a more boisterous Papa proposed. Later, he’d leave
a stack of coins on a metal plate to pay, more
than enough silver dollars as bright as moons.
Could we let someone sober win, the others asked
when they were far into their honest cups. No,
the oldest ones agreed. And yet, that imperfect man
walked through the thick night with everything
he needed, an empty fist in his coinless pocket.
Gary Leising is the author of the book, The Alp at the End of My Street, from Brick Road Poetry Press (2014). He has also published three poetry chapbooks. He lives in Clinton, New York, with his wife and two sons, where he teaches creative writing and poetry as distinguished professor of English at Utica College.
Hawaii Pacific Review 