Hacienda Kobayashi

 At a pre-apocalypse,

post theater party,

we all wandered the confines

of Hacienda Kobayashi until 

there you were and here we are,

some years down a road,

before our known road 

turned footpath

between the garden

and the toilet

on those red spanish tiles, 

a step or two 

up from down

we sat, 

with red wine sloshing,

between perfectly hopeful 

Hollywood teeth and gums,

as down the gullet

here it comes, 

telling our stories, 

about waiting 

on the moments

for the arrival 

of our ship

coming in

at this port-of-call, 

now abuzz with triumphs

of the past two hours

of other hopefuls,

(“Love your work!”)

and stevedore techies

drinking beer while

they push and carry

news in fabulous 

theatrical voices,

all of us walking, running, 

skipping steps 

going up and down,

to the toilet,

or other unknown 

rendevous rooms, 

above, below, outside,

ranting on 

about nothing

and everything,

while you,

in black

and I, 

ala faux turtleneck 

and Italian jacket,

sharing a kind 

of dignified fashion,

dip into memory

where craft and dust,

and pineapple songs

end with a swift kick

from one of the travelers,

and time, and stories, and hopes all

collide in crystal air.

but in this flight and fall

there is a ring and a bounce 

and a ring and a bounce

as a stemmed wine glass learned 

its joyous fandango

and finished,

with a roll to the right

and a roll to the left

and a roll 

to a righteous pose

and we gasp,

of course,

at The Big Finish

to our now famous 

Wine Glass Incident,

and we learn

a new story

where we can hurtle through space,

and we can fall on hard surfaces

where we can still do tricks

singing clever bon mots

and lay as still as death,

without breaking.