Last Friday Night

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audio of Aaron Poochigian's print edition, Last Friday Night

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Aaron Poochigian

Last Friday Night

 

      So much was right there waiting. You know how it is
      at dusk, how barber poles and neon signs incite
      animal expansions in the irises
      as daytime colors fade to dark or flare up bright—

      that was the spectacle outside a coffee shop
      (Revue, you know, the frou-frou place on Olive Street),
      and little leaves were blizzarding the tabletop
      in front of me, and pugs were snuffling at my feet,

      but there I slumped, reflecting, brooding, Oh Lord Yes,
      sinking beneath insuperable doozies like
      contrition, middle age, the frailty of success.
      What woke me was the tin bell ringing on a bike,

      Look out, look out. The naïf of an immersive story
      discovering the Oz-like setting he is in,
      I witnessed traffic lights lavishing Christmas glory
      on cops, partiers, and this whacked-out dude whose grin

      seemed wisdom. Sure, he was a sage who understood,
      like Buddha, we got Wonderland. No need for drugs:
      I looked out on creation, saw that it was good,
      the whole vast framework and the small things, like the pugs

      tugging at a magenta scarf, or how the supple
      air had heft enough to toss those gleaming leaves
      in ones, twos, threes all over an athletic couple,
      lovers, tonguing under vine-enkindled eaves.