At the Jukebox Bar

Where our talks are as tall

as our glasses, they are charming and 

stern and always in tailor-made 

tune. Up here

on this wooden table spill

your crowning jewels, between the bar top 

and the golden ocean tap, the

graining waves of wood like

printed fingers. Your

careful answers stack in a great 

numerical order from the biggest to the brave 

and unimportant. And when this songbird ends you 

do escape, leaving me  

to be this

fabled ancient theorem

written by hand in a 

fountain-footed chalk

for us to smear with, a carving in 

the whitened sidewalk sand that 

drips down into gibberish with the rain.