Knopf Poem-a-Day: April 4, D. Nurkse’s “The Bars”

A cold drink and a taste of self-knowledge in D. Nurkse’s corner of Brooklyn.

–

The Bars

After work I’d go to the little bars
along the bright green river, Chloe’s Lounge,
Cloverleaf, Barleycorn, it was like dying
to sit at five p.m. with a Bud so cold
it had no taste, it stung my hand,
when I returned home I missed my keys
and rang until my wife’s delicate head
emerged in her high window and retreated
like a snail tucked in a luminous shell–
I couldn’t find my wallet, or my paycheck,
though I drank nothing, only a few sips
that tasted like night air, a ginger ale,
nevertheless a dozen years passed, a century,
always I teetered on that high stool
while the Schlitz globe revolved so slowly,
disclosing Africa, Asia, Antarctica,
unfathomable oceans, radiant poles,
until I was a child, they would not serve me,
they handed me a red hissing balloon
but for spite I let it go, for the joy
of watching it climb past Newton Tool & Die,
for fear of cherishing it, for the pang
of watching it vanish and knowing myself
both cause and consequence.

–

Listen to D. Nurkse read “The Bars” on the Knopf Tumblr.

Learn more about D. Nurkse’s A Night in Brooklyn.

Hear D. Nurkse read in Bethesda, New York City, or Bronxville this month. Find D. Nurkse’s full event schedule here.

Excerpt from A NIGHT IN BROOKLYN. Copyright © 2012 by D. Nurkse. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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