The bartender was a Jack or an Eddie,
chunky chested, tall and Irish,
with a mongrel mustache hiding clear disgust,
who nodded left and right with a black-eyed glare,
moved wordless up and down the bar
in broad suspenders and rolled sleeves
digging ice with highball glasses as he went;
who shook their usuals at 4:30 p.m. –
the O’Tooles, Kings, Roarks and Schmidts –
in the chatter and smoke of a three-man combo,
happy hour secretaries tapping ashtrays,
laughing at each other or nothing at all;
who sent them home, middle-aged men
sagging in their souls
through deserted, brightly lighted
Manhattan streets that shone
black with slicks of rain,
the Kings and Roarks in need of jobs,
the others in need of women;
home into studio apartments
to melt into sleep
under lights of floor lamps
on stuffed colorless divans,
dress shirts yanked open at the place
where the stripes of their ties
formed the knot of the noose
that was part of the deal