for Don Coles
The tavern’s on an ageing street. Blinking
bulbs point here. Inside, scattered quiet men in caps
and open coats. The walls are hung with photographs of players
from the past, Sids and Freds and Charlies. What you notice
in the photos is their gear—everything’s too tight or small,
except the grins and tumbling hair. It’s a different age.
They look a little sheepish playing games.
The home team’s on behind the bar, the sound
turned low. Nobody’s paying much attention.
Someone down the bar says, “A woman can do that
to you.” Someone adds, “In the wink of an eye.” I see the heads
bob sadly in the glass, then hear a half-known voice at my ear,
“You’re watchin’ the hockey. You know me, Doug Harvey.
Bet you wouldn’t turn a thirsty guy away.”
When had I thought of him last, I wondered,
surprised at what gets left behind. I nod to the woman,
who shrugs and moves her cigarettes away. She knows him
too, but for her he’s just a bum who’s cadged a drink.
He gives me a bat with his hand, “Hey, what about one
for my friend while you’re at it?” I see there’s
a move or two he can still put on you.
I look at the hand as it rests by my arm
and think of what it’s known, the backs it’s slapped
in better days, a drunken fan it flattened twice to save a referee.
Then that seventh game in overtime, fooled by Leswick’s
floater—he reaches upward, almost tenderly,
as if to touch a shyly offered breast, tipping the shot
past a startled McNeil. I watch as he turns in the mirror
and moves between the chairs and brooding figures
back to his table by the wall. My knowing how
he moves is exact and ancient. He reaches home,
a drink in each hand. I see him turn to find me in the glass.
“Hey, the joke’s on you, I got no friend.”