New Moon Garden

When you walk in you’ll find,
at 3 o’clock: a long glossy bartop
curled around a bend,
in the corner—maybe a boozebag,
or a hungry cougar, a local businessman
or 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 of
To-go orders, comings and goings
at the front desk, alone and content
with a Keno machine high above.

A perfect Chirashi arrives;
it summons an electricity
where salmon and hamachi land
on a noumenal pillow of tight rice—
chopsticks in my left hand,
cocktail not far off to the right.
The maestro and I share a few
glances as the headlights
from the long parking lot
line the shiny window. Patrons stumble
into the liquor store, they de-char
out of the tanning salon;
the candlepin alley readies for league play,
and the axe throwing bar
swings its threadbare door ajar.

In Sunday School they never taught us
that Eden was moonlight
over a Strip Mall
on a Friday Night.