The cars passing

outside the bedroom window

sound like

waves

lapping

hungrily at the

shore

and they are

ceaseless for this late an

hour

and for the

first time in

years

I find the

wall at the

other side of the

bed.

And so I

unbuckled my

belt and let the pants

drop to my ankles,

the

buckle

softly finding my

foot with a quiet thud
--

a deliberate gesture of

silence for the

boys downstairs.

I climbed into the

empty bed,

and tried to

remember to

enjoy its

newly discovered

size.

He
hung
himself
from a
basketball
hoop
in
the
park next to
the lake.

The soft
breezes
pushed him
to
and
fro
and his
toes
pointed
all the way
down.

Abandon the place
you're at,
rally the troops and grab
six packs of
tall beers to be
carried by the yokes
on single fingers as we
stroll along the lakefront
in search of a
suitable place to
drink and
chat and
laugh.

A gentleman's dinner of
cold beer and
cold apples.

the butter crackled
like cicada shells under
high-tops on sidewalks.

Even the
quarter machine is a
scumbag
at this hour
and will take
my nasty folded
dollar bills
without question.

And perhaps it was my
father's bad move when
he taught me how to
break cleanly
because I find myself
leaning over too many local
pool tables, lining up shots
and getting better with each
one I take and each
beer I drink on these
dirty Tuesday-Friday nights,
getting closer to a perfect game.

And I wipe the
nasty well whiskey out of my
stubbled beard with the
back of my wrist and
try to keep my hand
chalked and ready to shoot the
next game,
maybe for beers if that
works out but,
if not just line the shot with
my wonky eyes and
try not to
talk too much
shit.

never
drank with his
left hand so as
to keep the
chalk dry.

"But she fucked him,
right?"

What a silly question,

of course she fucked him
and was
fucking him.

Slippery fingers like in
years past or
gone by and

when the bartender laughs at
you you know it's time
to go home to
read alone on the
couch like in years past and just

take every gulp of beer like it's
exactly time to start drinking
the next one.

He dug the
pointed tip of the
blade into his
forearm
and ratcheted the
jackknife towards his
elbow in
violent
sharp
jerks
like he was
opening a can of
tuna.

Oh Billy.

He didn't like it when
I went home with
his bartenders because
he loved them in his
own strange way,
and maybe he had an
eye open as he
slept in the uncomfortable
leather semi-circle chairs in
the corner,
and I know he felt
bad that time he fired
Jenna in a huff
because he found me
waiting downstairs,
hiding behind a pillar
in front of the bank next
door.

When he won the
lotto one day he
said he'd fly us
all to Florida,
but he just went to
Florida and lost all the
money,
and came back
no more defeated than
before and had the
balls to tell Suki to
go fuck himself.

It was funny
to see old Billy,
brown as a leather
suitcase drinking
cold white beers in
the park like a
millionaire.

He'd been something
once,
had owned Miami and
fucked women in the
upstairs after the
doors were locked,

so when a psychic told
him he'd die at 50
he just said no,
and kept on being
Billy the piece of shit
with sad stories
and bad teeth,
bad breath and a
dick that didn't
work anymore.

Billy the old
Croatian,
who lost it all
on the horses.

Billy who'll never
die,
who'll never die.

My father would drink

salt water,

take one breath and

disappear under the

waves for
minutes at a
time
and
surface with

conch shells,

silver fishing lures,
and

other trinkets

thought lost to sea.

He would pull us,

his children,

in a rubber raft he'd

found adrift,

holding the rope with

clenched teeth while

his swimmer's build of
triangular sinew

led us out beyond

the bobbing white and

orange buoy,

Powerful with every

stroke and

he'd lean back to

dip his hair in

the salty mass,

throw back his head

and smile--

bright flat teeth

and pure slick

divinity.

No man so powerful

could launch us

feet into the air,

screaming with

glee and fear before

our bodies slapped the
brisk,

salty fresh brine.

No man like Father,

born of water and

salt and

grace.

1.

I still hate packed
bars and I
still just want to
drink in the quiet back
room of Miami.

2.

and I'm no longer
sitting at the bar
drunk and sad
waiting for a
girl to come up to me

I'm actually just
sitting at the bar
drunk and sad.

3.

and with my elbows in the
bar rail I feel the
same familiar
loneliness I felt when I was
twenty
and started
wondering if something
was wrong with
me.

She said
Malort tastes like
skinny jeans and
"my mom pays my
rent" and
I felt like
a stupid kid
despite
what I don't
really quite
know.

I didn't or
couldn't relate as the
bartender joked about
when her dad
died because
my dad hasn't
died yet and I
don't know what I'll
do when he
does.

and the kid
pulling up to the
bar
drunk
had an
upside down
book of
poetry in his
bag
and he
felt like an
idiot once he
realized it
was
showing.

and we both laughed,
and tried not to
look at each other because
the stupid cell phone game
the couple at the
end of the train played was
so obnoxious,
and so bad
that when she got up to
leave I
simply smiled and said
"thank you"
and she
smiled back and
said
"good night"
and when I rose to
leave two stops
later I
swayed
back and forth
happily
and tipped my
hat to the
young guy sitting
three seats down
who'd been trying to
soothe his angry
girlfriend and he
gave me a knowing look,
and we both
laughed out loud
and before I started down the
staircase
I stopped,
spread my arms
wide to
embrace this
city and
laughed,
hoping he'd see
the gesture and
know.

I
sweat
through
the
brim of
my hat
and
if she
sees me she'll
think I'm a
pig and I
don't really think
this hat will
dry
until the
class is over and I
have to carry it
funny so that
none of the
pretty girls
will see.

end of story and
only the
single track is open
between South and
Howard and
we might just
never
make it out of this
stop.

I know my
cigarettes are at
home but if I
go to grab them I
should stay home,
but like it was a
few years ago I
might just meet
someone
to leave with.

So either go home
get smokes
and feed the
stupid cat
or sit
reading at the bar
waiting to meet a
sad lonely
girl and

Sometimes these
grown-up decisions get so
hard
but then
the rain
picks
up

and the
bar under the
train tracks makes
sense because
I'll just
wait for the storm
to stop and
I will just keep
waiting until the
rain
runs
out.