in the smokeless liquor
haze
his balalaika strings
torment the air
with pain
his fingers wander
the memory tracks
the chord-filled lines
where he is lonely
as the poet
Osip Mandelstam
the ice jug on the bar
looks cold as a turnkey’s
heart
now a picolo player trifles
with his bluesy rhythm
a woman whips up the will
to dance holy carnal steps
a lovely gift
to hungry hearts
I see the man is worn-out
but he is not ready yet
to hand his Adam’s dust
back to the clay
now the woman shakes her soul
to his convulsing
strings,
opens her generous heart
smoothes her waist
and hips
to the rhythm and grace-notes
of his finger tips
she knows he seeks
comfort
that in heartbeats of
time
he cries from his soul
the pulse of lost love
it shows in the veins
of his taut-stringed
neck
grabbing for a branch
in the deep dark well
he knows we all drown
but he licks sweet honey
from the leaves of his tune
on his way down
the hard-knock blues
lament
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