Alan Catlin- Three Poems

All the back road

grit from every

twisted turnpike

broken double

yellow lined

not on any map

sold in this

territory, state or

country highway

was imbedded

about his person,

said, “Son, make

it a longneck,

doesn't matter what

kind & a double

Yukon neat. What

you lookin’ at?”

He said, observing

my reading the worn

lettering on his way

faded, oil stained,

shirt that said,

RIDE IT LIKE YOU

STOLE IT

He smiled pounding

down his brand of liquid

fire, washing it away

with Imported from

Jersey longneck swill

signaling for dos mas

as he swallowed the last

of his beer. “Anyone can

wear a RIDE AMERICAN

shirt. This one you have

to earn.”

Seamless Surgery

We were waiting on

some hot shot PHD

surgeons, policy makers

too busy making important

decisions, drinking latte

or whatever it is they do

locked behind closed

door conference rooms

while us working technicians,

with a mere 30 years

or so of actual field work,

are cooling our heels

waiting for these specimen

sheep to either be no longer

viable specimen, or to cut

themselves open, finally

my partner Bob says,

“I'm not waiting anymore.

Let’s get started.” As these

sheep weren't getting any

younger or showing signs

of instituting self-surgery,

we started in with the biopsy

business, had everything

squared away when the big

wigs finally condescended

to show. “Well, let’s get started,”      

the head honcho says,

“Started,” I said, “We're finished                  

already.”” Finished!? Where's

all the sponges? The blood?”

“When I do chest surgery,

we don't need sponges because

there's never any blood.”

“I don't believe it Who taught

you that technique?”

“Only the best in the business,

Dr. Salvatore, Mafia Surgeon.”

That always gets a big laugh

as they think it’s a joke.

It did this time too. 

For the life of me, I can't

understand why they think

I'm kidding.  The kind of work
                                           that man did, he couldn't

afford to leave any blood

behind and there's no reason

why I should either.               

I'm not going to

say he's weird but I was over

at his place to check out

a job & asked if I could use

the phone.

He says, “Sure. Let me

show you where it is.”

We get to this little cubby hole

where the stairs come down into

the front hall & he says,

“Over here is where I talk to God.”

Now that's a line that begs for a

come back but I wait to see if,

maybe, he's kidding & when it looks

as if he isn't I say,

“And does He talk back?”

“All the time,” he says.

Now, I'm wondering if he's

got a party line set up with

the Unabomber, Son of Sam

& Charlie Manson &

I'm thinking my call really

wasn't that important.

I wouldn't want to take up

potentially valuable phone time,

so I say.“Never mind, I'll call later.”

“You sure? I don't mind.”

“Absolutely. Positively. Sure.”

By then, I'm convinced he’s got

                                           layers of aluminum foil concealed

in the ceiling & walls to screen out

all potentially harmful interference/

transmissions like mine.

Nothing must interfere with

this ongoing dialogue with God is

definitely the prime directive

around that house.

Makes you wonder just what

he and God talk about:

World Affairs, politics

religion, sex? How about

them Yankees? I almost asked

but my mama always said a man's

religion is his most private thing

and you have to respect that.

I was really curious but some things

you are just better off not knowing.

Besides, I thought I might never

get out of there if I had asked.