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