The young stranger nods at the vodka and I am filled
and handed over to him, he drinks deep and quick
slamming me down and motions for more.
The Austrian painter who drank cheap schappes
yesterday sits dejected in the corner,
only livening up when two of his acolytes enter.
He drank sparingly from me, spittle dribbling
down my sides to illustrate a point.
He grips his listeners but leaves an awful bruise.
The Doctor last week sat with me between thumb and
forefinger, new thoughts creased his temple,
folding in to catch something not yet grasped.
The talkative Russian throws me back and forth,
talking about how his ideas will spread and
to keep germinating the fallow lands.
He slams me down a little hard, a crack starts
at the bottom right hand corner, I’m set up
on a shelf to watch the nights unfold in Cafe Central.