Put Your Lights On
when you need
me, her main man
had said, a hot
spot burned into
her bed where
they had lain,
covers pulled back,
just the two of
them spent &
lazy, all their
dead banished
to the desert,
even after moon
rise, even after
their shadows
could be seen
as desolation
angels waving,
calling to them
to come to this
place of darkness,
this place no one
returns from
not even in
the most vivid
of dreams
their personal event
horizon meant
meeting in a men’s
room at 3 in the AM
Monday mornings
& exchanging body
Fluids, cash for
hard drugs, rock
candies, bags from
the weed of the week
club, all high grade
shit, cool & regular,
big tipping, punctual
to a cracking fault line
was like the nuts
‘til an unexpected group
meeting with
professional heavies
ended with lead weighted
night sticks, brass
knuckles, industrial
ball bearing athletic
sock weapons, made
such a thorough mess
out of their lives
four gallons of
bleach & a pressure
hose washing couldn’t
completely clean it up
Alan Catlin worked for the better part of 34 years in his unchosen profession as a barman in and around the greater Albany, NY area. He has published dozens of chapbooks and full-length books focusing on his work and the people he met while laboring in the trenches of bar warfare.
