
It takes a special kind of poet to write a great poem about a bar. The only other ones that come to mind are
The Shooting of Dan McGrew and
The Face on the Barroom Floor. Hang on to your hats and ponytails! And watch out for flying shot glasses! For you are there: in the Arroyo Seco Bar, 1973.
Merimee Moffitt (Phi Beta Kappa from UNM) now lives in Nob Hill and teaches at Central New Mexico Community College. She had a slam team when she was teaching high school and used to hold slams in lieu of finals. She led and followed her students into the community slam and open mic scene and is working on her first collection of poems. She is a co-editor of
The Rag, a monthly poetry broadside.
The Seco Bar, 1973
I remember you, Michael, throwing me across the fender
kind of cowboy style, kind of wandering saddhu
sad seeking path
my face under your mad-as-hell fist
me dumber ‘n dirt at 27, you old at 38 sleeping with my skinny friend
kissing her in public, god, looking for love by the juke box
in the last rays of afternoon sun
all of us in wooden-floor nickelodeon light

full of gin and desire
Either I died or she did was my snap decision
Alcohol’s wild fission of rage and motherhood trumped
discretion then my bar glass thumped her head
a pull on her ponytail, a kick to her ribs
Five guys jumped and you trotted me
bouncer-like to the parking lot
Barb wire and tumble weed bordered Taos Pueblo lands’ miles
and mountains and centuries of coyote quiet
I said go ahead, big man, break my face
Looking down eye to eye, you paused
What stopped you, I wonder
Some mercy for me, orphan boy; did you see me?
The crazy want for you, my same want to be
done with you but
your hand proved more hopeful than hate.
In that Arroyo Seco showdown, I saved face twice
not knowing I’d leave you behind anyway—
the lone subtracted factor
both of us wanting a mother’s arms, the
triangular strength of family elusive until
we grew, each into our own
I didn’t know yet of two more babies who would
play French horn and viola with confidence
who would never guess I had to pull my voice out of
my boot one night and knock a woman upside her head
that one lump on her sorry, split-tongue face would open me like
a town of possibilities
Before anyone could depend on me for nada
I had to be my own ass-kicking best friend first
--merime moffitt
Poetry submissions are most welcome. Email theditchrider@gmail.com.
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