At the Dock Bar
Let's workshop this bitch!
At the Dock Bar
We went from a case of beer on the rowboat
to a bar on the east bank of the Hudson. Set
for smash-tantrum whenever Dad got sloppy,
I refused to go inside with him and Ronny.
In the glovebox of Ronny’s truck I found
a pouch of chewing tobacco, on the front
a red-faced warrior in full-feather headdress.
Having chewed, like jerky, the sweet twists
by myself in preteen defiance, by pink sunset
I was dizzy, seeing things. Ronny and Dad, back
as if having teleported in with the cricket dark,
urinated near the truck. Ronny spoke of a girl.
“Young,” he said, tugging himself to prepare
for a night with her after he dropped us off.
Lying stiff on my back in bed, but rocking
enough in spirit to panic, the brown fluid
I did not know to spit (at least the first wads)
amplified the sunburned day of river waves.
The image came of Ronny tugging, his back
atwitch under florescence. I figured his date
was a hooker since he was as old as Grandpa.*This poem first appeared in Better than Starbucks (2018)
Photo Credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/giveawayboy/