This poem, from Tom Sexton’s recent book Bridge Street at Dusk (Loom Press, 2012), connects to the “Moody Gardens” post below.—PM

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Manny

He was a minor god of the underworld

whose euphonious name brought no reply

if mentioned during the day, a lounge

singer, a god of sirens and bleary-eyed

last calls, of broken hearts and hands.

Still wearing his brushed velvet jacket

and heavy rouge, he joined us at the diner

that never closed, where laughter rang hollow

and everyone who came in eyed the clock.

His hair was dyed the color of Apollo’s,

and his voice was raw from singing requests.

He would sit on a stool at the long counter

or in a booth with men who might turn on him

once the night melted like lard on a griddle.

.

—Tom Sexton (c) 2012