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Private Club (Somerville, MA)
Outside, in the gravel lot, we wait
our cloud-breath lightly staining the windshield
From the low slung building,
a man stumbles through the black, chilled night
Staggers,
bracing himself along the Buick
Fumbles with jangling, jagged brass
slumping,
Falling,
into the upholstery
His bleary gaze
straining,
Forcing,
pleading
As the dashboard blurs,
The Pine tree freshener rotating, then back again
in its slow routine
The Buick, monolithic for some minutes
suddenly shudders and grumbles to life
Inside this mausoleum,
under the glow of a Keno screen,
Atop the cherry-leather stools,
a State Trooper and Pipe Fitter sit,
Propped against the cheap-teak bar
The gaze of the Statie triangulates between
his Keno ticket (stuffed in a meaty hand),
The spot selections on the sky-blue monitor
and the WHDH 10 O’clock News
“I’d tackle that nigger if I seen him run”
says the Pipe Fitter
Glancing at the black charcoal sketch,
A floating simulacrum in the detective’s hand
WANTED in a South End rape
In the Men’s room the cracked linoleum is tacky
with piss
Sneakers resist (slightly),
rubber soles squeak
Our buddy, pea coat strained against his broad shoulders
shakes himself off
Into the porcelain
acidic, nitrogenous Bud Light
spatters in amber droplets onto the floor
Then into the lot, he lurches too
oblivious, for a moment, to the front seat voyeurs
The car dips with his weight in the back seat,
anise (from thick Sambuca shots) and Marlboros
Invade the crisp air
We pull out
pebbles skidding under worn Michelins,
To waste another night
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