(Header image by Dale Williams Barrigar)

Remy and Jules – that was their names.
Or Remy’n’Jules when people said it.
This dive bar, Andy’s was their hangout.
They had nothing and they laughed about it,
uncorked the cheapest wine in the place
with such flair, like the bottle held
some fabulous Paris vintage.
They convinced themselves
that it would pour forever,
or at least until the next train
rattled deep below,
shook the bottles and the stools,
reminded them they had to be elsewhere.

Like under the overpass –
which was not romantic, except it was –
they said well, at least we’re alive,
Sure thing. Why not?
Wasn’t existence some kind of party?
And weren’t Remy and Jules om the guest list?
So why not stay for the company,
for the sunsets, for the river, for the traffic,
for the way the fading light hit the concrete,
so winsomely, so precise, it felt like grace
left out for anybody
who just took the time to look.

John Grey