Lindsay Daigle
Around the Corner
A courageous flinch walks into a bar holding a case of lactose intolerance and says, “Suburbia stole
my killing field.”
Someone else’s words are willing nightly Jerry Thomas tributes into existence.
The piano player is spooning skepticism into his rye whiskey cup, muddling it with maraschino
cherry-flavored mistakes.
The gutless coincidence behind the bar can’t tie a proper bow around his neck for all the cool in
Miles Davis.
Impossible angels press juke box buttons, accruing new midnight-hover-motives.
Cigarette Sam has shined his shoes for just such an occasion as this MacGuffin game of leapfrog.
Brandy-soaked newspaper shreds are winning this one.
Coercive political pamphlets in failed investment bankers’ pockets are telling heart-sleeve stories in
exchange for mezcal shots.
Held applause comes bearing gift horses to pay his red zone tab.
Ice cubes are sloping off the edge of a barstool where the drowned seaman’s son sat wooing the
taste of birdshot out of his mouth.
How many steps to heaven?
Are we safe here?
Which wound?
Is it strong?
