Equipoise
Mundy Street dips and rises
where the old mines hollowed
out its legs, so one day might
collapse as a man well drunk
or fighter struck with a Joe Frazier
left hook. So must have been more
stable when the beverage outlet
sat on a level lot back from this
bending, breaking asphalt where
dad garnered his twelve bottles
of beer in a latticed wooden case
and we were left with the choice
of soda flavors an equal twelve—
so a welcome stop even if off-brands—
but always a few colas and lemon-limes
to eight of miscellany—root beer,
glowing orange, or even sometimes cream—
variety enough in the ratio and wisdom
of the double choices to take back
up the mountain beyond the roller-coaster
of this road in the East End, sweet for us
and sedating for him again on solid ground.