Evening at the Idle Hour
Evening at the Idle HourOne Friday, like addled magi
bearing bribes, February brought
a warm breeze, a sapphire sky.
And to give thanks for a fine day
in the midst of a grim winter, I lofted
glass to what gods of spring
I could remember and conversed
with Mary O'Connor, as grand
a madam and keeper of the sacred spirit
as ever left the old sod. She said,
"It was just such a day as this,
some sixty years ago, when herself
was driven to whoredom and a fine
profession it was, before those godless
politicians, with their lawyer tricks, stole
Rachel's Pleasure Emporium and renamed
it a massage parlor; it was the devil's
own massage they gave. And what,
with the competition being what it was,
they hounded us poor women
from our God given labor--
terrible times of for an honest whore!"
Pointing to me, she cried,
"And now, with all this talk
of stars and moons and romance,
dear Suzy says she's retiring;
and her, the only whore between me
and the poorhouse! You forgot
love's business is the business of love!
Money makes love, not fine words."
Turning, she sang out, "Belly up
to the bar, boys. You wouldn't want
an old woman to starve now, would you?"
At one snow began falling; by three
it shrouded sidewalk, shrub and car.
Mary made last call; nudging me,
wanting to know if Suzy could
warm a fine fellow, such as the poet,
himself. I replied that I'd pay love's coin
with words portrait of true feelings,
and buy more than a reprieve from a cold
night. She laughed and then observed:
"It's a cold bed you'll be keeping --
and many a night too, lad. You've
bought the idol lie of love and love
the lie to the point of being its prophet.
God help you see the truth before
you're old and lonely and miserable.
Come, Suzy, let's put the boy in the cold
and close this place for another night."
I stepped into the night, the snow crisp
and crunching beneath my boots.
Twenty years or more have passed
since that night and I wonder if Mary,
herself, was not the prophet.