mike the pilot drinks at the catch-22 bar
his face is cherub red
and pock-marked
a w.c. fields tribute of abuse
his belly has grown
to a tank of cheap beer
it’s been eleven years
many a blurry night between us
but i recognize him anyway
even if he’s not clad
in a white short-sleeved shirt
with those striped patches on his shoulders
the wings pinned crooked on his breast
all day on the new york to chicago run
all evening taking up a stool at rooney’s pub
soused enough to make me think twice
about every commercial flight i took
mike the pilot drinks
at the catch-22 bar
with a woman who looks
twenty years younger than him
looks disappointed and bored
as she sits there picking at a bowl of pretzels
watching his head bob up and down
a man starving for slumber
more than conversation and alcohol
like mike was never the man
who took mona on the men’s room sink
and make her cum so hard
that it broke right off its hinges
and cracked in half
on the sticky, piss-stained floor
mike the pilot
looks old and useless
sitting there in the catch-22
with his beer untouched
all of the action and adventure
drained right out of him
the years gone from blessings into a curse
as the woman he’s with
gets up to play a song on the jukebox
a classic one from back
when mike was young and virile
when the booze flowed like rivers
the uniform was animal magnetism
and the bright, blue sky
was likely everything to him
except the limit.
poem to the young men smoking marijuana
outside my bedroom window at midnight
i think of a past me
when i come to my bedroom window
to meet you head on
the guy who would tell you bastards to get lost
the guy who’d be grabbing for his sneakers
a hammer, a broom handle or a baseball bat
the drunken idiot
who would storm outside defenseless
ranting and raving
hoping that lunacy would be enough
to scare you idiots off
i think of him…and he’s like a ghost
all i can do is stand there
in the darkness and glare at you
as you four stare dully at me
the pot stench wafting into my bedroom
strong and skunk-like and out of my control
know that it’s my fault for living on the first floor
know that it’s my fault for trying to carve out
some kind of peaceful life in america
slam the window shut
to your collective laughter
and go back to bed
my back to the window
like the coward
that age and time
have gone and made me.
John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The
Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass
City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon,
2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014),
and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of
the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery
Press 2016). Grochalski currently lives
in Brooklyn, New York.
his face is cherub red
and pock-marked
a w.c. fields tribute of abuse
his belly has grown
to a tank of cheap beer
it’s been eleven years
many a blurry night between us
but i recognize him anyway
even if he’s not clad
in a white short-sleeved shirt
with those striped patches on his shoulders
the wings pinned crooked on his breast
all day on the new york to chicago run
all evening taking up a stool at rooney’s pub
soused enough to make me think twice
about every commercial flight i took
mike the pilot drinks
at the catch-22 bar
with a woman who looks
twenty years younger than him
looks disappointed and bored
as she sits there picking at a bowl of pretzels
watching his head bob up and down
a man starving for slumber
more than conversation and alcohol
like mike was never the man
who took mona on the men’s room sink
and make her cum so hard
that it broke right off its hinges
and cracked in half
on the sticky, piss-stained floor
mike the pilot
looks old and useless
sitting there in the catch-22
with his beer untouched
all of the action and adventure
drained right out of him
the years gone from blessings into a curse
as the woman he’s with
gets up to play a song on the jukebox
a classic one from back
when mike was young and virile
when the booze flowed like rivers
the uniform was animal magnetism
and the bright, blue sky
was likely everything to him
except the limit.
outside my bedroom window at midnight
i think of a past me
when i come to my bedroom window
to meet you head on
the guy who would tell you bastards to get lost
the guy who’d be grabbing for his sneakers
a hammer, a broom handle or a baseball bat
the drunken idiot
who would storm outside defenseless
ranting and raving
hoping that lunacy would be enough
to scare you idiots off
i think of him…and he’s like a ghost
all i can do is stand there
in the darkness and glare at you
as you four stare dully at me
the pot stench wafting into my bedroom
strong and skunk-like and out of my control
know that it’s my fault for living on the first floor
know that it’s my fault for trying to carve out
some kind of peaceful life in america
slam the window shut
to your collective laughter
and go back to bed
my back to the window
like the coward
that age and time
have gone and made me.
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