For Alex Bevan
Her presence was the organizing spice
that made the dish; the multivalent pun;
the compliment whose humor takes you twice
as far aback in unexpected fun,
her laughter tinkling like a scoop of ice
cubes thrown on glass bottles in the sun
that heats a summer vacation afternoon.
This morning though itís only me and the moon.
Me and the distant moon, whoís not as far
away as she and I have now become.
She laughs that laugh while I sit in this bar
and wonder how I could have been so dumb
to leave where all the things I value are
and vanish in this alcoholic slum,
regretting what Iíve kept and what Iíve strewn
this morning when itís only me and the moon.
And now the moon is pretty far advanced
along its ambitís arc above this place
where one is propositioned, not romanced,
and conversation lacks both wit and grace.
I shuffle now where once I might have danced
and face the fact that this is what I face,
however jaded or inopportune,
this morning while itís only me and the moon.
Barman! Bring another tinkling glass
or two, and we will claim that weíre immune
to all this pitiful alas alas
this morning, you, and me, and the goddamned moon.
you have any comments on this poem, Marcus Bales would be
pleased to hear from you.