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Last Call

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A giant bird-
of-paradise
has climbed the bar:
in this paradise

there are no flowers,
no flowers at all.
When Happy Hour
becomes Last Call—

Adam in drag
our royalty—
we buy her gin
for eternity

(an unseen deejay
scores the years
with pulsing music
of the spheres).

Now the queen has gone,
gone again
in search of love,
in search of sin.

It’s closing time.
You were not at fault.
I drain my glass   
and lick the salt.


Randall Mann, “Last Call,” from Poetry (August 2004). Copyright © 2004 by Randall Mann.
Source: Poetry (Poetry Foundation, 2004)

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This poem originally appeared in the August 2004 issue of Poetry magazine

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Last Call

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