Click Page 58

Poetry of Issue #8        Page 58

Nighthawk

tonight

a bar window opens onto black,
broken only by swaths of light
while I hunch over an Amaretto Sour
a glass of champagne
whatever my fancy is

stalling the last sip,
the bill

people disperse without acknowledgment
train wails late night laments
jukebox plays weary oldies
the champagne just churns

it’s time to go

home

what a harsh word

  Yash Seyedbagheri