The Humphrey Bogart Breakfast

The morning after the opening night
of my exhibition in Munster
I was taken to an American-style diner.
On the walls Babe Ruth slugged a baseball into eternity
James Dean climbed smiling into his fate as Kennedy waved
and men walked on the moon during a civil rights protest
even Nixon stooped above the pancakes
I slumped in the severed rear end of a Cadillac
and for no other reason than I could say I’d had it
I ordered The Humphrey Bogart Breakfast
it arrived on a tray of his portrait
one Lucky Strike cigarette
one black coffee
and a double Bourbon
starve a fever
mute a heart break
I took them in no particular order
and stayed there until it fell dark
taking the edge off
like some men just do
maybe because they know they will never be remembered
on restaurant walls
at closing I left for the street
gazed up at the starry orchard
and dot to dotted a constellation of you
like an electric ghost of winter blossom
that fell heavenly and whispered
‘think not of legacy
or of all the famous last words
never actually spoken
live day to day in love
with what you love’
I lay on my back looking up at the night
like a phone left off the hook
unanswerable
and buried in your sky
play it again Nan
play it again.