The sawdust
on the floor
has gone the way
of all dust.
But it is the hard slap
of the house dark
on the dark, mahogany bar
that sustains me.
Yes ,
they have made
concessions
to a high
definition TV
but the ancient
beaten ivories
of the piano
still hold their torch songs
on Friday nights.
And
it seems
there is still a wholesome, yellow statement
of cornbread,
and a saucer of
baked beans.
The long dining room
has stretched over 100 years
and in the rear
there is a pay phone
in its battered booth
before you hit the head.
And that din of laughter—
(and I admit
I miss the cigar smoke)
and the bright red—
sheaves of corned beef
sprouting from dark bread.
What was once alive in this city
is still
not quite
dead.
Meat is a
tasty murder
Broiled,
fried, crucified.
On a plate
on a platter
what does it matter?
We classify
all our
oh-so
mannered cuts:
sirloin, tenderloin
and for the regular Joes
you can call it "Chuck."
With a flash
of silvery cutlery
I cut,
but really
I want to
tear into
my
succulent meat,
and delicately wipe the blood
that stained my cheek.
My word
for savages
we are so
neat!
