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.