A Summer Evening Still Life with Handgrenade, Utica, N.Y. 1970
alan catlin
The sun sets on the hunched backs of the men
drinking coffee at the White Tower sandwich
bar, unfiltered cigarettes burn in the gilded
metal ash trays, fried eggs roll over easy on
the hot griddle and the bacon pops, fast
cooking in the still, hot air. All summer long
days end on the edges of a vinyl stool, chins
leaning on worn hands, elbows tarnishing the speckled
countertops. Through the grimy picture windows,
the watching could see the cars lining up in rows,
parking against the bar and grill wall, the drivers
getting out stepping inside where the local favorites
trade ethnic jokes and lies over Utica Club draft beer,
smoking short cigars, chewing cheese fish and pretzel
nubs; the one who leaves early with less than half a
bag on was better off inside, strong arming a client in
the men's room ,outside, his car door has been
hot wired, he is an unsolvable murder about to
happen, touching the handle he triggers an explosion
no one sees exactly as it happened. Inside the bar,
the drinkers are lighting new cigars, watching
the game behind the bar, fresh poured beers losing
their heads on the wood.
