Death of a Barman, Old Men Drinking Shots Without Beer Chasers, The Lark Tavern 1973
alan catlin
Someone told jokes all the way from Albany
to Coxsackie, just six young guys in a hearse
blowing weed, trying not to smell the flowers
in the back, trying not to see the unforgettable,
familiar bearded face beneath the lid pasted
back together with cosmetics and cream, pale as
the instant the stolen Lincoln in a high speed
chase with New York’s finest on its heels made
his silver grey Volkswagen into just another lump
of metal up against the wall in Ozone Park the
Lark Tavern regulars talked about over double shots
without beers watching the pall bearers in the back
bar mirror lift the casket from the hearse, walking
down the frost capped treeless hill toward the
rectangular hole scraped from the earth: “All he
collected was nails,” his mother said, “24 years o
ld, what a way to go. He never had a chance.” Looking
down into the hole, everyone knew she was right,
especially the old men who saw him staring back
at them from the glass with their own, cold, dead eyes.
