The Drinker

by Neeli Cherkovski

I dunno he said
As a blanket of fog
Crossed from the lower slope
Of Russian Hill
I dunno but there’s
Nowhere left to go
We’ve stolen all there is
To steal and broken
All our promises

He was a regular at
Franks Extra Bar
One of those hard–drinkers
Who seemed in charge
He drank whiskey
And would launch into
Memories of the old
Times working on
The Embarcadero
Joining the strikes
Saying fuck you to
A phalanx of cops

It was a real city
He said
I mean none of this
Smooth talking and
Stuff about caring

He would grip
His glass of whisky
In strong old hands
And remember

Now he is with
The children of the sun
Way past the Sierra
Nevada Mountains,
High above the deer
And elk, Franks closed
Long ago, young men
With Uber accounts
File–in to a power lunch
Of Italian food
And fine wine

I forgot his name
Maybe Bill or Roy
Or it could be Bob
he would hate to see
The shadow of the beast
On Columbus and
Broadway in his old
workingman’s town