The
Pub Tavern: Madison, Wisconsin
Cocktail waitress drops her tray of beer,
glass, and cigarette butts. The mess
rises from the floor with nicotine and habit
wrapped thickly around his throat, says
his name is Jim, slides into the booth
across from you, offers a smoke
from a crumpled pack, and orders
a tap of beer—head foaming brittle
as an old sponge. It soaks through his beard,
drips onto his lap.
He
smiles.
You
turn,
contemplate the window in front of you,
run your hand over the sweat filmed glass,
clear the amber haze to see outside.
People cross the street, tucked in briefcases.
Inside the bar, the heat presses its sweaty face
against the window, blurs the expressions
on the people outside, and you ask
the mess sitting across from you
how long he has been here. Most days,
he replies, he doesn’t remember.
Copyright © 2002 Blake Hoena