This is the third piece in the series “The Columbus Chronicles”
The guy on my left a couple of stools away smells like
aftershave, the strong and cheap kind that comes
in a pickle bucket. He apparently bathes in it.
Not as bad as what I imagine the little guy on his left smells like
that dude looks like he was put through a wire winder
his hair isn’t curly, isn’t kinky, isn’t anything but
black springs that have been stretched beyond their capacity
and they are just. . . there His muscles are thin and visible under
his rayon knit polo, a topo map of hard living
He drinks whiskey with water on the side
he sips and talks and his voice rumbles like a diesel
truck, one of the ones that rattle over the potholes outside in the not-empty
not-busy street
My sour draft is cold, at least
but the taste is perfectly hideous
I consider quitting drinking for the hundredth time