Bar by Douglas Cole

An epic of eyes
They say come on
through the cigarette haze
like the mist
through which Ulysses found
the countenance of the dead
and I am drawn to it
in the same way
to the grimy windows
with cheap Christmas lights
and fake snow
to the fat-armed pool players
knocking off shots
to the sad-eyed crone
whose gaze swirls
around and round
and ever inward so
her smile collapses at the edge
and that one old man
I know like my own dreams
obscure and bowed like a monk
over a solitary drink
the whole world
recorded in his eyes
that say go so softly I know
the smoke withdrawing
gives the doorway
its gleam
like the first forever kiss
in the brain
a spark that sends us
searching through rooms
and dreams and lifetimes
for this one
cold gray day
to be born