by Quincy Lehr

I saw you through reflecting glass 
    and lipstick smears of wine, 
and even though drunk off my ass,  
    I knew that you were mine. 
And you were slender, circumspect, 
    a grin that went ajar 
between the Calvinists’ elect 
    and that prick Baudrillard.    

We traded numbers (as one does) 
    and staggered to the train, 
fondling bits of pocket fuzz 
    and mumbling to the rain— 
a faded song, the chorus weak 
    and warbled out of tune. 
A kiss goodnight flicked past my cheek. 
    I think I slept till noon,   

dreaming about an old TV, 
    an outsized golden cup— 
and I saw you… and I saw me, 
    perennial runners-up 
exposed to unexpected glares 
    of cameras and eyes 
unseen but sensed. But I was there 
    and scant feet from the prize.   

A thousand scared contestants 
    are waiting for the chop. 
The priests will don their vestments 
    although it’s only pop. 
It’s vapid, but I like it. 
    Hear the critics groan. 
Hoist the sail, then strike it. 
    I don’t think we’re alone.


Across the Grid of Streets can be purchased at Seven Towers Agency: http://www.seventowers.ie/