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Please Release Me

Thomas M. McDade

Stan is smooth.
Slick as second
gear to third
in the truck he drives
for a plumbing firm.
His salary goes to family.
Larceny supports his frantic
gambling on any sport available.
Although he’s not religious, he
figures tithing two or three
copper deliveries a month
is fair and a drop at a junkyard
of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind
isn’t like fourth down and one
clock running down or
bases full in the last of the ninth,
two strikes and trailing three runs.
But he roots most for abandoned
structures and some not so all alone.
If he can’t reach he climbs as if
a bundle’s bet on him, always
easy as a puck in an empty goal.
Stan roots and curses players,
teams and thoroughbreds until hoarse
but his melodious voice, famous
for singing Humperdinck tunes
returns at its finest for weekend
lounge last call crooning duty.
If the juke is playing a fan will
pull the plug without a hassle.
On rainy nights, he listens for
drops tapping the establishment’s
gutters like patron fingers
on tables and the bar as if also
enjoying his song even if the metal
is just half-worth-the-risk aluminum.

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