After work, O’Hara’s Bar on Broadway—I’m drinking Poetry. After my third, I’m Gandalf conjuring the world. Following my sixth, I’m Jesus: a seer, a saint, and a savior. I scribble on my napkin—I am memory at a distance. I must be Shakespeare but my girlfriend doesn’t join me. Rejection letters fill my throat. A sip back to Sacred Heart School, Tara Stewart said, “Your pants look like curtains.” So now I’m home alone, watching Home Alone and all my poems are my body’s lies. I can’t find the email that I didn’t send. I am a toilet heaving. The movie ends. I might blackout until death do us part and other things that I may never say but I find a pen to write the words that join me anyway.
Joe Barca is a poet from New England. He has a partner, two children, and a Wheaten Terrier named Brady. He is a fast talker and a slow runner. He grew up with the Atlantic Ocean at both ends of his street. His father loved boats, so he spent a lot of time on the sea. He is a fan of the Oxford Comma, and he is lobbying to have the em dash added to the keyboard.
Joe, you have created a beautifully wrought, luminous piece of writing. I love your imagery, and your metaphors are divine. It’s a lovely, poignant poem. Thank you for sharing it with the world.
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