It’s the haze that hurts.
Sometimes far worse
than when the sun
spits its rays
all over your face—
them days you brown
& redden, the work
can be like
to kill you—
so a man need
a place to go inside
his head & walk around
& rest. There’s a juke
joint of the soul, somewhere
you can have yourself
something cold, or brown
burning water—we used
to get ice in fresh, cut
from giant blocks,
sawdust, clean glasses
& good good food. I kept
the bar sparkling, shiny
as the teeth of the couples
on calendars behind me
staring into each other’s eyes.
Budweiser in cans, Nehi,
Drink Coca-Cola
Bottled up. This was my place—
a green room, a somewhere
you could twist, maybe spin
a partner on the dance floor
or just set a spell
& tap your foot, mine,
taking it all in.
We never let anyone
carry on too long
& made sure they carried
themselves home safe
beside the tracks
that also kept
their crosses, clanging—
that train red,
an eye,
then blue, bearing
down on you.