I Revisit My Youth

The guys walking by on the street peer in,
But it's dark and they don't see a blasted thing;
Ya gotta learn how to make sharp left turns.
Girdled in denim I saunter inside;
I don't get carded, but the lesbians do,
'Cuz, face it, with lesbies you never know . . .
The secret societies trickle in
And agglutinate in corners and chummy crooks.
A clique of Brits—straight and far off-base—
Come by for "authentic" American shots
That don't exist. Fazed, they fade away.
Overheard nearby: "We must coax that heifer
To stray from her foggy-bottomed settee!"
I think: "O foghorned friends, please leave her be . . ."
There's nothing here to amuse the soul, and
Buffing her nails takes priority.
Not much has changed in thirty-odd years,
Except: now the singletons have smartass phones
To keep their fingers warm and engaged.
I've always felt greater affinities
For the drink-slinger joes over these gangs
Of swillers that rumble up to the zinc.
Back when I was more marketable,
I used to hang out till closing time,
Till the bartender called it quits, and then—
But I can't stay up that late any longer.
Eight-thirty's my limit, and soon thereafter,
I roundabout homeward, with maybe one stop:
On my way to the subway, I order a slice
Of fresh, hot pizza. Joy to the world!
And high point of the entire evening.

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I Revisit My Youth