When At Last They Sweep Up The Light
inspired by “G’Nite City” by Mike Gravel  

Not a word spoken is out of place and the diction is good
           and the grammar impeccable.
And the barkeep’s wares are consumed in good humor
           and clarity of mind clean like a conscience.
Tuesday night, when at last the final poem is delivered for another year,
           when at last they sweep up the light
And usher us out into the bright world once more,

Us nimble-fingered ivory ticklers, six string lickers,
           beaters of the drum,
Us rye and coke benders, port pretenders, vodka radiologists,
           imported beer drinkers, connoisseurs of draft,
Us bartenders and bartendees, opposite sides of an old equation,
           libations for a fee,
Us pink suits,
Us spastic vocalists,
Us midnight shambling zombies,
Us grown-to-tired-to-think-straight, throw-caution-to-the-wind seizers of the day,
           flirters with all original lines,
           You-show-me-yours-I’ll-show-you-mine drive-by haikuists,
Us ABBAABBACDCDCD sonnet writers,
           first-time-in-a-vodka-bar spoken word rookies,
Us who are summarized by devil puppets and tickle chests,
Us who snap pictures of anything that moves,
           postmodern anglists, Ansel Adams wanna-bes,
Us seated-in-the-back shadow-shrouded onlookers,
Us get-to-the-couch-in-front-of-the-booths-first early arrivers,
Us mysterious scribblers in curious little books,
           personalized fonts across a page,
Us ass-grabbers and shit-talkers,
           painters and drawers,
           moths who hover around flame,
Us hippy-dippy dreadlock wearers, soundscape experimentalists,
           naturists who tout the virtue of a white flag,
Us mentalists memorizing the contours of each chair,
           the dimensions of each table,
Us who wait in the halls for in-between-speakers,
Us Backroom back window view huggers,
           lovers of the skyline,
           kissers of the city,
Us aspiring filmmakers,
Us inspiring tongue twisters,
Us missers of the rain,
Us charitable food-drivers bearing heavy loads,
           cans that aren’t pumpkin mix or sardines,
           good Samaritan smilers, walkers on a golden path,
Us subtle coughers around cigarette smoke,
           admonishers of a glowing tip,
Us sign-up list racers, running shoe endorsers,
           middle-of-the-first-set-or-bust largest audience seekers,
Us five-minute-limit-poem parallel parkers,
           people who squeeze the most careful pronunciation
           out of every fucking word,
Us wishers that one day we could set up the stage right on the balcony
           and scream out our perfect little idylls into the cleft of the avenue
           and hear shouts of “Encore, Encore!” in response,
Us rappers and rapscallions,
Us hip-hoppers and rock ‘n’ roll somnambulists,
Us stairwell romanticists,
Us WC sign chucklers,
Us dance floor stompers, disco ball astronomers,
           flood light flooders,

Seekers, one & all,

To us, I say, “Safe travels,
may the paths that lead away from this place
lead back to this place
one day.”
For now the final poem is delivered
and at last they sweep up the light.

© 2006 Michael Appleby