Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Enough

She worked

the bar

as if she

was working

the streets

Called all

the men

sweet things

or honey

pies

Had tip cups

everywhere

under the bar

like she was

running a

concession

Drank

straight Vodka

warm Man

while she

worked

I wondered

where she'd

be when

all these

men had

had enough

A Man Called Horse

He was

on Horse

alright

His eyes

were so

bummed

out

you could

see his

soul

cruising

over the

edge of

a cliff

He was

riding

so hard

you couldn't

ever imagine

him

sitting

still

unless

you carried

stiffs

for a

living

Chest Surgeons

They slip

into the night

like bad

dreams

Take over

your bar

Stab pointed

fingers in

your chest

Tell you

all about

the politics

of South

East Asia

Drink

everything

X‑tra dry

Want to

know why

you're not

smiling

Want to

know why

your chest

is a mass

of scars