Ways to fill a cup

There were only so many ways to fill a cup,
So few pathways and gestures and nods,
Before they all became tiresome,
Snatching vitality from the air,
Locking it within a grooved and etched cabinet
For future use when, absurdly,
They could somehow seem novel again;
Only this time with the cold glare
Of irony sharpening the glass
Into fragments that could slit a wrist,
Spilling onto the table the excess
Blood and beer and wine,
When care had ceased to enter
The hand that poured and caressed without feeling.

When softer methods of incandescence failed,
It became the task of lesser demons
To lounge and scrape and bow,
With twittering laughter to escape
And fly to escarpments on high,
Looking down at angry, fist-shaking
Barmaids with sneering, snide grimaces,
Mocking and slapping their backsides,
Sticking out their tongues and refusing to leave,
No matter what threats may be leveled.

But old regulars endure and continue
To order and consume their usual,
In the usual manner,
Through avenues worked smooth,
By repetition and induced familiarity,
Remaining anchored to seats and stools,
Going home trailing their tethers,
To be reeled back in with a regularity
That surprises not a single soused soul.

And when the hoarse fall air,
Exhales a newcomer into our midst,
Creating currents of conversation,
That all are careful to hide and keep
Out of earshot of even their neighbor,
The glances still manage to rip free from holds,
Cut through the smoke and feigned indifference,
So that contempt is sure to run reckless among us,
Frothing and fouling the atmosphere,
Before the man can even take off his hat,
The object of a sudden, fleeting unity.

He eventually learns to carve out paths like us,
Witnessing first-hand the limits of this space,
Yet still grasping it and holding fast,
Until hollow snickers are rediscovered
While drinking from the far side of a glass,
Where he can see truly, that here is
The opposite of both joy and boredom.
Or perhaps he senses this instinctively,
And with a mighty wind of derision that
Demolishes the combined forces of our own,
Takes his coat and hat in hand and,
Without a word or sound that we can hear,
Walks right back out the way he came,
Never to be seen by barmaids, demons
Or drunkards again.

Flickering Prayer

By the flickering light of the television,
In bed late at night
The room otherwise dark,
She closes her eyes and makes her prayer.

Murmuring lips wield phrases from memory,
The talk of the church
Filtered through the viscera
Of a day’s events, people, wonderings, longings.

Fitfully, she rambles through minutiae,
Pauses over topics of greater import,
Loses her rhythm and seizes it again,
Careful to keep a pleading tone from entering her voice,
Knowing that the Lord helps those who help themselves;
That the Lord pities and punishes those who only complain,
Who scorn His gift of life.
She asks and requests,
Sometimes humbly, sometimes almost immoderately,
But always ready to be denied and to accept denial
With the gratitude and equanimity befitting a vessel of His will.

She finishes with an audible, “Amen,”
That escapes with her breath,
A soft and pliable offering,
Barely reaching the edge of the bed,
Before drifting up under the ceiling,
To mingle with the smoke from her last cigarette.

By the bright, steady light of the television,
Her weary head sinks back,
Wisps of hair splayed out gently,
Thinly decorating the pillow
With their ghostly fragility.
She rolls onto her side and tries to sleep.