I pass through the door
Where they check
IQ instead of ID
Subjected to neither
By the affable doorman
In tweed jacket
And corduroy pants
Lounging on a stool
That looks as if it might
Cave in under him
At any moment.
I take a seat upstairs
At a glass topped table
Resisting insistent requests
From the genial female server
To have another lethal shot
Of gin and tonic
But I eventually reason
At only seven bucks
Why not?
Twelve feet beneath me
Across the ornamented alley
An ageing Chinese guy
Sells vintage magazines
Punk as well as Beat related,
From a wonky trestle table
Outside City Lights
And chats to a tour guide
Whose Vietnamese party
Scatters to take photographs.
Over my shoulder, James Joyce
Squints at a bottle of Jameson’s
Behind the well stocked bar
And from a yellowing poster
William Burroughs bemoans
The day he killed his wife.
The fleet is in town,
Fresh-faced, well scrubbed
Serious young men
From Jackson, Mississippi
And Greenville, South Carolina
Stare open-mouthed at
Cartoons of bare buttocks
And unpatriotic sentiments
Posted on the walls around them.
“In this far out city
Yet
Even here
On the left side of the world”
Guests line up to
Thank them for their service
And pester them for selfies.
The 8 Bayshore Muni
Meanders up Columbus
And catches the lights
On Broadway before
The Condor sign
Where Carol Doda
Once titillated guests
With her
Twin Peaks.
As my third drink is delivered
At the next table an elderly man
With white beard and pigtail
Tells tales of Gregory and Jack
Hoping to impress
Switched on young women
From Berkeley and Stanford.
While at the end of the bar
Clutching bottles of Boston lager
The best minds of their generation
Prattle of apps and analytics.
Tony Quarrington 