40

At the far end of the bar, a black
Telephone rings. He extricates
Himself carefully from the mahogany
Stool and the underside of the counter
And comes creaking to his feet
Reining his limbs into an upright
Posture one by one like a circus mime
And reaches and adjusts his fedora.
He crosses the floor in four fluid steps
Each step seeming to hitch his frame
Upward in the air as he bucks his
Silver tapshoes like a great black
Puppet. He moves with a slight of
Figure, jerking in the wet light from
The doorway where dense cloud pushes
In smelling of electrolytes and vinegar.
And the telephone still bleats into the
Hush of the empty bar and his yellowed
Fingers find it and pull it from the
Cradle and he speaks into it with a
Voice that crackles and plodes softly
And then he falls silent and listens,

Staring into a corner behind the bar
At a half-empty box of walnut whip.