New Moon Garden

When you walk in you’ll find,at 3 o’clock: a long glossy bartopcurled around a bend,in the corner—maybe a boozebag,or a hungry cougar, a local businessmanor an everyman jack. But right in front of you—at 12 o’clock—empty space;a smaller bar, a touch less lacquered,and behind it: A sushi genius.This is where I sit, among bags ofTo-go orders, comings and goingsat the front desk, alone and contentwith a Keno machine high above.

A perfect Chirashi arrives;it summons an electricitywhere salmon and hamachi landon a noumenal pillow of tight rice—chopsticks in my left hand,cocktail not far off to the right.The maestro and I share a fewglances as the headlightsfrom the long parking lotline the shiny window. Patrons stumbleinto the liquor store, they de-charout of the tanning salon;the candlepin alley readies for league play,and the axe throwing barswings its threadbare door ajar.

In Sunday School they never taught usthat Eden was moonlightover a Strip Mallon a Friday Night.