HAPPY HOUR

Happy Hour

In this town as well as many

others across our great land,

Happy Hour is mandatory.

A posted sign in the window

of almost every bar declares

at this time you must cheer up,

have a beer or two or three,

smile into the foaming mug

if you’ve got enough sense,

as most guys don’t, to savor

the blend of beer and suds from

a frosted glass rather than chug

from a bottle that deprives

your lips of the full taste—

but maybe that’s just me.

It’s a point I won’t argue since

there are a lot of large men

with bottle in hand who might

take umbrage, which is to say

swing at my fragile jaw or

smack me upside the skull

with one of those said bottles

I’ve been getting so snooty

about. I wonder if you must

have a happy hour what does

that say about the other twenty-

three? It’s enough to make

a man weep in his beer.

A Boy’s Life

We chip in for gas

money, fight over

who rides shotgun,

not that we have any

lethal weapons long

before drive-by shootings

become de rigueur for

boys in the hood, we

joyride up and down

our Main Street since

it isn’t called that for

no good reason.

No hamburger joint

to hang out at, no gals

on roller skates to take

our order, we don’t

even have souped-up

jalopies to drag race.

This is Poland, Ohio,

man, back in the Fifties,

and not much is shaking,

just an occasional rumble

between our corner gang

and the one from a rival

town, Boardman, switch

blades and tire chains

the weapons of choice.

Good (or Bad) Samaritan?

If you pull a thorn

from a lion’s paw

the beast may or

may not be grateful.

In either case, I’d

split the scene fast

and chalk it up to

good intentions.

When you see a man

lying by the roadside you

must quickly decide if

you’re a Good Samaritan

or not, who’s to say if

the guy is drunk, stoned,

or even shot to death?

How do you respond?

In each case beware of

unforeseen consequences.

Say it’s a heart attack,

his pulse has stopped,

should you try to perform

artificial respiration?

What if you’ve forgotten

how to do it properly,

what if you press too hard

and break a few ribs?

Or you don’t press hard

enough and guy’s ticker

never resumes tocking

again? It’s your play,

as the guys say sitting

around the poker table.

Curmudgeon’s Lament

1

I speak for the NQDWG community—

aka Not Quite Dead White Guy—

Don’t think I’m more bitter than

circumstances call for, but I do

prescribe a daily supplement of irony

as a last defense against the creeping

meatballism of our absurd world.

Our nation, and much of the planet,

is now, thanks to Covid, living

a posthumous life. We don’t want

to mourn all the dead, yet our false

sense of gaiety belies our dazed state

as if we’re all walking around half-

stunned and cannot admit our pain.

2

What literary reputation I have

is in remission. If you are

a serious writer in America

seek a goal within reach—neglect.

I’ve been to Greece, hiked the slopes

of Mount Parnassus—they are

littered with sheep droppings.

I will die the death of a curmudgeon—

sour grapes caught in my craw.

Fame is a game of musical chairs,

who sits or lacks a seat at the table

is willy-nilly a whim of fashion.

As a poet I have cultivated

the art of going unnoticed.

Sometimes in the morning

I forget my own name.

Short-Order Cook

When the factory closes you

find work as a tune-up man

at the garage, but the new cars

have fuel injection, who cares

what you hear under the hood?

The unemployment office tells

you to switch to service jobs so

here you are a short-order cook

flipping burgers, topped off with

cheddar at the last moment, maybe

blot the grease, add the sliced

fixings—tomato, onion, pickles—

on a lightly toasted bun, and

plate the damn thing, drop one

more patty on the grill, toss cut

spuds in the fryer, then shout out

day after long day the name

of the same damn order.

The Motel

Rather than journey to

the end of the night

I stop at a Holiday Inn,

air conditioner mooning

me out every window,

treating myself to that old

familiar sameness. After

long hours on the freeway

my hands still shake from

steering-wheel vibrations.

Next morning I wake to

the Everly Brothers singing,

“Bye Bye Love, Hello Loneliness,

I feel like I could die.”

After a shower I watch

two women on a back porch

snapping beans and scraping

carrots while a dog licks up

last scraps from a tin pate as

they laugh, swap stories.

Back on the road a small man

with a red flag waves me on

a detour around a garish yellow

giant on metal treads, big scoop

tucked in front like an elephant’s

trunk and the name Caterpillar

printed on the side. Somebody

has painted on a large rock

in crude smeared letters what

Jesus and Bev do best.

William Heath has published four poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, Going Places, and Alms for Oblivion (Prime Time is due in 2026); three chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio, Leaving Seville, and Inventing the Americas; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake's Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award from Hiram College. He lives in Annapolis. www.williamheathbooks.com