The perfect act outside of Brady’s Tavern
By Patrick T. Reardon
Stop, short the physical.
Yes, you know the
noxic feel in the deep
and up throat
and out,
and the thick wet stink
up your nose,
even though it is his feel,
his nose,
fellow feeling as you watch.
See in ghost
dark and shadow light
of this alley
the arc of acid flow,
all orange from the
Viceroy butter chicken,
balletic,
an architecture of
color, contrast, tone, texture.
Build a sanctuary beneath it.
Hold here a coronation.
Mark the forehead with chrism
under the liquid vault.
Is this not divine clockmade?
Can you deny the beauty here?
And then a flash.
Cigarette lit.
Aroma of fire and flora fiber
under the unseen night cosmos.
Patrick T. Reardon
8.13.19
This poem was originally published 7.16.19 in Eclectica.
