Sing, oh muse, of that night at Lon­nie’s

(spared from the flood by the hand of God)

filled with Vandy girls, spray-tanned till tawny.

To the Stage, then Toot­sie’s, and Robert’s just to catch my breath.

I saw Ophe­lia, whose tem­per­ance met an early death,

and par­si­mo­nious, un­der­neath an awning

I gave her cig­a­rettes, for alms, or calm­ing.

The cops had cor­doned lower Broad

and in an alley, within a block of Hoot­ers

we were ac­cused of being loot­ers.

I ended up alone at Coco, later on,

with Gra­ham Par­sons on the tired speak­ers,

eat­ing pou­tine with un­even hands

among my fel­low drunks and the list­less tweak­ers,

slouch­ing and squint­ing at the dawn.

The rumor com­ing from the news­stand

was ‘Pi­ra­nhas loose in Opry­land.’

I placed an­other order: mac­chi­ato, jam, and toast,

and thought my­self among the ranks and files of the dead.

Head­lights in the half-light looked like the eyes of ghosts.

I called a cab, bussed my plate and trash

and re­mem­ber­ing that I was short on cash,

opted to hoof it back to East Nashville in­stead.

When I reached the bridge, I turned my gaze

to the river, sated, un­der­neath me.

I think that if it were the Lethe

I would tip­toe into the swell,

eat­ing sugar cubes and as­pho­dels.

I should have joined the vol­un­teers these last few days,

and the shame was like venom, cours­ing through my chest.

(like a Pen­te­costal on a vi­sion quest.)

Mark Hos­ford

I passed the Quon­set huts and the Tyvek domes,

took a men­tal in­ven­tory, to see what I could spare.

I have a kitchen full of beer and kitsch,

a hall­way lined with Hatch Show prints,

books on poker, Descartes, and car re­pair.

The walk felt long and when I got home

I bagged some sweat­pants and a gar­den gnome.

The ges­ture being use­less; I’m aware.