Sulphur and dope,
the new smell of
The Fourth of July.
Today it’s stale beer,
sticky floors, and,
hopefully, the last time
Lee Greenwood streams
from the bright blue
jukebox that shines
so obnoxiously bright.
in this run down, dim bar.
Outside the sun reveals
not just the remnants of fireworks
but what is left of a neighborhood
that once thrived with we workers.
It is only me and a few others
who still come here,
who notice the grey-man enter.
So dim, our eyes so bleary,
we do not see at first
its huge eyes, shaded by
the worn baseball cap that
holds a faded sunrise on its crest,
that seems vaguely familiar.
We nod as it sits next to me
and in a wheezy voice,
asks for a gin and tonic.
Jerry asks what gin and
I wonder how it is this hole in the wall has
anything more than one.
I don’t hear the answer, but a g&t appears
and the oddly splayed hand picks it up.
So hot, it says.
I nod and agree, out loud, hot.
I don’t usually like kibitzing, not at mid-day,
not after a holiday too full of loud sounds
and blurry memories.
A few slurps and it starts to talk,
and before long I seem to be recalling
the past I didn’t have, but seems so real.
It buys me a drink. And another.
We were partners. We fought side-by-side.
But what war, when? And how did we get there?
I ask these questions now, after,
But then it was real. The heat, the humidity.
The smell of sweat and something else.
And when it was gone, and I finally found my way
out into the blinding sun of the day,
we were both veterans of a forgotten war
of the worlds that never existed
until Independence Day.

---

by Robin Wyatt Dunn, with Perchance                             

Roger Dutcher likes Wisconsin, cheese and beer. He has been writing poetry for over 50 years.