lost salarymen meet at a very old intersection.

a poem by Morris McLennan.

Crossed oceans to get here. Sitting on the curb outside the world’s oldest gay bar. Bet somebody’s vomited on this curb recently. Always wanted to see it. Snuck out of the conference early on my last day. Don’t think anybody noticed. Don’t think anybody cares about me there, anyways. Anyways after years and miles and oceans, I have arrived at the world’s oldest gay bar. Attempted the tarnished brass doorknob. The windows were all cracked open. Sign on the door, written in dried-up pen. Closed. They had to re-varnish the floors. The scent, wafting down the sidewalks. Flight’s early tomorrow. Maybe I’ll die. Maybe somebody’ll shoot me before I get to come back and see the world’s oldest gay bar. 

Oh well. It probably isn’t the world’s oldest, anyways. I’d bet my last cigarette that the world’s oldest gay bar is buried miles underground in some heap of ancient Mesopotamia. Bet they used to all pile onto horses and speed over to Enkidu’s Nightclub, where they’d drink gallons of plum wine and listen to deep fertile crescent house music and huff copper paint. Or, hell, maybe boy dinosaurs used to invite other boy dinosaurs to like, eat some ferns together by a pond in the paleolithic era. 

A cigarette? Sure, man. Here. Yeah. Had to pick today of all days to re-varnish the damn floors. It’s my one night in town. You know another spot nearby? That’s. Really kind of you. It’s nice to meet you. Yes, I. I think I’m ready to go.