The bartender was a Jack or an Eddie,
chunky chested, tall and Irish,
mongrel mustache hiding gruff disgust,
a nod here or there, black eyeball analysis,
gliding the bar in broad black suspenders
digging ice with highball glasses as he went;
shook them their usuals at 4:30 p.m. –
O’Toole, King, Roark and Sturges –
in the chatter and smoke of a three man combo,
happy hour secretaries tapping ashtrays,
laughing at each other or nothing at all;
sent those middle aged men home in deserted,
brightly lit downtown streets
blackly shining with slicks of rain,
King in need of a job,
the others in need of women,
sent them into studio apartments
to fall asleep under lights of floor lamps
on stuffed colorless chairs,
dress shirts yanked open at the place
where the stripes of their ties
formed the knot of a noose
that was part of the deal