41

He puts the receiver back in the crook
And the weight goes chunk. The halogen
Bulb in the striplight above the mirror
Behind the rows of bourbon and sasparilla
Flickers in its dust whiteblue and cold.
He reaches for a bottle by the base and pours
A measure. Milk and crusts and glass
Lie down the bar, detritus of a moment
Gone. He lifts the shot and holds it in
The swimming grey light of the doorway
And the amber has woodsmoke and gunsmoke
And tar and sediment like sap in it
Rich and old as the bayou and he drinks,
Grimaces like a harlequin with a flash
Of white and takes the receiver up again
And then replaces it slowly grimacing.
The room floods instantaneously with light
And he walks to the door and as his
Bootheel meets the worn step thunder
Breaks with violence and he looks out
To where the cloud rears like a rhinoceros.