in the Saturn Bar’s security-camera
grey and red neon
where Clouet crosses St. Claude
rattled corner hangs paintings by a hell-diver
who rose too fast into bent visions
he traded drinks for
acrylic-on-panel shrimpboats
bearing forward cursive in grand roving
the name O’Neal
who owns the bar and stands as the only
bartender since the fight
a jukebox warbles the damage inward