Things weren’t going well
at the desk
so I moved the operation
to my neighborhood pub
settled onto a quiet
corner of the bar
and was lifting a pint
of Ruby Red Ale
to my lips when
the guy next to me
asked what I was doing
“Drinking.”
“No, I mean with
the paper you got there,” he said
“Writing a poem.”
He choked a little
and immediately
started talking about
the Yankees
We were in a public place
so I gave him a grace period
of around three minutes
before shooting him
the signs that I was engaged in
the creation of immortal art
and could not be bothered
He kept at it
Championships
pinstripes
Jeter
runs batted in
After a while
I began to hear a
disembodied voice
whisper in my ear
“You should throw that beer on him.”
I flinched
the voice came again
“Flick your cigarette at him man.”
Steinbrenner
bad trades
first base
hot dogs
“Kick the stool out
from under him.
Do it.”
the voice said
The new era
Torre’s a bum
next season
Clemen’s return
It was tempting
This went on
for some time
until I realized where
the voice was coming from
There was no question
It was one of the
bad-seed kids
who’d spent a few
afternoons of detention
in this place ninety years ago
when it was a functioning
elementary school
He was calling to me
to join him in
his badness
Yankee kept chattering
The Detention Kid kept whispering
My beer was getting warm
So I stood up
got out of there
moved the operation
back to my desk
stole this poem
from both of the bastards
and went to bed
_____________________________
My UK pal Andrew Eglinton and his brother Alan published this poem, over at their new(ish) site, Calling America first.
They’re collecting American stories with the idea of coming over here next year to develop a documentary. Great idea. And the execution, with style.
Thanks guys, it’s good to see one of mine on a white page for once… and in good form. Best of luck to Calling America, may she make tracks to success and stay there…
_____________________________________
Robert Bruce is one of the most read, linked, loved and reviled poets working on the web. He writes at KNIFE GUN PEN every Monday from Portland, Ore. Get more over at Twitter. If this did something to you or for you, go ahead and spread it around...
{ 10 comments… read them below or add one }
Robert, thank you for your kind words and for this excellent poem.
In a last ditch attempt at some ruthless self promotion, I would just like to stress that If anyone feels inclined to spin their yarn, we welcome all submissions with open arms.
Thanks very much indeed.
Andrew.
Interesting place to put a bar.
Most of the ones I go to are in old corner bar/store locations. Rarely is one more than five blocks from a bar in this town, save the still desolate areas.
would that be either the kennedy school tavern or old St. francis school tavern created by the portland mcmenamins?
this poem brought back many memories of times spent at st. francis tavern and the inane that one meets at such places. your detention kid is my kid, too. i like him. others can keep their honor roll kids, i’d rather have my detention kid. he’s more interesting…..
I like it Andrew. Good on ya for stealing that poem from them! It’s a keeper.
Bruce, most stupendous work. Really, Palahniuk hustle with John Owen smugness. I love it.
Which bastard was the hardest to carve off and leave at the bar?
i know of a ministry that meets in a bar every friday a.m. they call themselves “dirtbags”. the cool thing is that they attrract guys from every edge of life..those that are as far from God as one could be, all the way to those that are walking hand-in-hand with Him.
i remember one friday when a guy walked in from the cold. he saw all the cars around the bar and thought it was open…he wanted a drink. when he walked in and saw everyone sitting around listening to the pastor-leader, he heistated. the pastor didn’t. says the pastor, “c’mon in! can we help you with something, friend?” the guys says, “i was wantin’ to get a beer.” the pastor calls the waitress over (they’ve got a small diner attached to the bar), and says to the guy, “i tell you what. i’ll buy you a beer, but you’ve got to sit down with us if you want it.” the guy sat. the guy drank. the guy listened.
i’m not sure where the guy is now, or what he thought of the morning a pastor bought him a beer at 8 a.m. but one thing i do know… Jesus would have been in that bar, too.
heck…he WAS at that bar.
there’s nothing better than a cold beer with a Jesus chaser.
see, when these voices talk to me, they’re real. i’d much rather be haunted.
p.s. my infinite patience when i am writing poem means you have about 3 seconds to make your case as to why i am listening to you. after that, i walk away. or slap you.
I like your stuff. I’ll put you on my list of favorites and check in sometimes
i used to write out a few lines at a waffle house around the corner till about 4 in the morning. when the saturday night bars let out, the noise and confusion in that place could reach a feverish pitch. i found that i would smoke more during those two hours or so, but there was always a calm reassurance that kept me in the booth… i was alive, sain, and they would all be leaving soon to pass out on each other’s couches.