Irvin, the middle-aged blues player,
always has a gig on New Year's Eve;
tonight, he jives on about how the 80s
made him a metal man
rubs a hand over his closely shorn skull
talks about big hair
tells me how 'The Eve'
only used to mean one thing--
Times Square
 
He and Blackie would hop a train
with a pocket full of ludes and coke
walk from Penn Station
their hair flapping at their shoulders
each step like birds preparing for flight
 
On a crowded side street
a guerilla–style raid by the NYPD
separates them
outside some flashy club;
Irvin trades his pocket for an invitation
rubs his leather-clad elbows with
designer names he doesn't know
all enamored with a hard-core
ballet dancer named Mikhal
 
He remembers no other names
takes a train home alone
will never see these people again in person
only understands its significance
now, as a middle-aged blues player
laughs through the clouds of pungent smoke
he blows up to the ceiling
shifts his legs in the sheets
offers the epilogue before I can ask
rumbles on about Blackie,
the rich guy, and the prostitute

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