Andrew Waterhouse
A Night at the Plague and Nausea
(winter, 1996)
Forced out of my house by the Great Cold,
I walk white fields, to the blond person
behind the bar. I say: We’ll all be dead soon
and she laughs as she pours. I stare at her face;
the careful red. Money is passed back. She remarks:
We can never truly know each other or anyone else.
Sitting by the fire, I admire its realism;
the jugs and bed warmers, close to hand.
She replaces my glass, leans over, whispers:
Everything is meaningless. You know I’m right.
Three hours pass. I sway by the door,
listening to the snowfall. The bell sounds
behind me. I smile, free to decide:
a last request or the white fields.
Page(s) 23
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