For Those Who Find Themselves On the Wrong Corner

By Nora Moran

Fate answer my question like my hand is raised at half mast, if you can muster up the slightest amount of pity.
Friends, I’ll meet you all on that corner of East 48th Street. We’ll share drinks and sad stories, under the squinting, reddening eyes of God, remastered.


☐ swallow prayers,

☐ choke down the memories that rest in our throats,

☐ cross our bloated fingers under our barstools,

☐ share in the traditions that come from our namesakes,

☐ make promises like secret handshakes,

☐ lower our heads for fallen friends, pour one out for brothers lost.

Some of you might not make it there. You’ll stumble, drunkley pleading ghost­faced strangers to show you the way. When their faces disappear, and you become the world’s only occupant, we’ll be pouring one out for you, too. Under these dimmed bar lights, nobody is an afterthought. Each soft smirk accompanied by a faded wave of the hand places us right where we are, together or apart.

Across Central Park, I hear your heavy footsteps
as they curl and wrap their way all around the drunken city. If you can make it here, you could be anywhere. The razor sharp radiance of neon blue is nothing new, and places like this are aplenty. In each strangers eyes, look for that brightly lit sign.

Nora Moran drinks her coffee black and is an avid supporter of the Canadian tuxedo. She’s the youngest of 4 and easily her mother’s favorite child, as she is only a disappointment 49 percent of the time.