Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Sammy introduced

a whole new concept

of Christmas gifting

at the bar: wrapping

and giving, well-thought

out presents that were

designed to be the most

inappropriate, sure-to-be-

hated item ever.

He gave each of most

disliked happy hour

regulars a professionally

wrapped item like Pete

the Nazi’s Malcolm X

t-shirt.  What more could

a simple minded, virulent

racist ask for?  No one had

seen Pete since and it had

been years. In fact, last

glimpses of Pete was of him

swearing ad tossing his

Malcolm in the dumpster

behind the bar.”It was

worth its weight in gold.,”

Sammy insisted,” just

for all the free beers I got.

Chasing Pete away was

a bonus.” No one liked

Pete, least of all me.

Every time the subject

came up I bought Sammy

one on the house.

  

Sammy's idea of

a down home get

together at the bar

surprised everyone

Not that a guy

who did twelve

different kinds

of pills, from

laughers, to downers

to in-betweeners,

with his beers

and red wine,

was known for some

spectacular surprises:

first, he placed

the box on the bar,

ordered a pint

for himself, and

a half for his

mother, who never

really was much

of a drinker, "Right,

Mom" he said

to the box.

Everyone just sat

there, quietly finishing

the sentence he had

left incomplete:

"When she was still

alive…" but no one

said anything out loud.

In fact, it was so

uncommonly quiet in

that bar, you could

almost hear the head

bubbles evaporating

on her beer.

You could tell

Sammy had tuned out

what the guy was saying.

He’d spent a lifetime

tuning out negative comments

after all. Hell, everyone knew,

especially Sammy, that he

drank too much, that he’d

wasted his life, that he had

more prescriptions from more

mind altering drugs than

Timothy Leary and his merry

band of friends, I mean Sammy

had long ago given up fighting

the war with life, so why was

this guy going on so?

“Sammy, you have a degree,

a good one, and look where

you are: a pissant on a bar

stool.  What are you doing

with it?”

“Lately, I’ve been cutting

my lines on it.  I’ve found it’s

just the right size. I’d offer

you some but I snorted it all

in my office before I came

out.”  You had to hand it

to Sammy: he didn’t kill

conversations, he murdered

them.