Pablo The Bartender

Spring is, in many ways,
the trickiest season —
a rehearsal for autumn, they say.

“Beware fleeting thoughts, impossible wishes.”

My bartender, Pablo, knows
how hard it is
to resist illusions not your own.

Illusions feed him.
Beyond the masks.
Stilettos do not deceive him.
Old school.

He reads the Morse code
of arrivals and departures.
No one orders my drink.

Pablo pours for me himself.

He knows life better than most.
He smuggles
into my champagne glass
lemonade with tea.

A silent agreement:
keep the space intact
until the first autumn leaf.

Pablo understands.

He senses the danger
of cheerful spring days.
My laughter.
Travel stories.
The shine of unspoken desire.
The manner of my ways.

Another silent agreement:
keep the fire burning
until spring burns out.

We don’t speak.
Each of us keeps
our own counsel.

Guardians of borrowed illusions.

The creative season begins:
autumn jazz sessions,
anthologies of poems
not yet spoken aloud.

Once he wanted to be an artist —
as I tried not to be.

For a while.

Spring is the most dangerous season.

You can slip easily
on the slick floor
of someone else’s smile.




(From the series "Letters Home")