A home for old war heroes and the underemployed

From A GATHERING STORM (buy the book): http://amzn.to/2nRKvdM

 

In Memory of Hank Chinaski

 

The bar is dimly lit

compared to the

blinding sunlight

that splashes on the sidewalk

just outside the door

 

I sit down at the bar

allow my eyes to adjust

to the dank interior

as I waited for the forty-something

beauty of a bartender

to notice me

and take my order

 

Glancing to the right of me

I spy a collection

of dead hi-ball glasses

perspiring their last gasps

on the poorly polished bar top

 

A peek to the left

reveals the pit-stained

unshaven

bourbon flavored vestiges

of a blue collar afternoon

 

I think

Damn what a bunch

of crusty old fucks

are these

 

I watch as the draft

tumbled down

from the tap to the

ice encrusted glass

crystals gleaming in the foam

 

The first sip so smooth

that I had to glub glub glub

the rest of it down

its crispness numbing

the back of my throat

 

Throwing my head back

I savored the heady aromas

of stale cigarettes

flat beer

and petrified perspiration

 

As the glacial ice floes

ran down the side

of my second glass

I knew

I would soon

call this place home

 

I think

Damn what a crusty old fuck

am I

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