Kings of Toots

Kings of Toots

We sat next

to one another

unsecretive, even loud

in the dark

of a bar

called Toots.

Sipping voraciously,

and gesturing like Italians.

We competed

in consumption

not on purpose

but of need

we trampled habit,

daily,

any hour

celebration

every hour,

whiskey spirited away

with

promises for

tomorrow of the deeds we

sat on today.

The afternoon

was dear,

sweet light

low and

honey colored

listless,

like baking bread,

we sat there

elbows poking

the mahogany

our feet at rest

on the communal

brass stirrup,

us, cowboys

of the alehouse.

Yes,

we men

rode the room

through yet,

another day

past plans

for the fix

of all the

world’s mess.

Commiseration

during ballads

broadcasted by the

juke.

We fed it

our quarters

by the dollar,

shook hands

slapped backs

kings in the stink

of the bar

behind our home,

this piss filled

castle called Toots.

Wives wondered

what it was,

this place,

but we knew

here was where

we planned

for what had been.

Tomorrow,

was another way

 of feeling better

letting go

getting by.

One more, and we’ll go.

GJH 2004