Jack’s, Rosie’s, McKendrick’s

Half-jawed
man at Rosie’s.
Or, what used to be
Rosie’s, now it’s
McKendrick’s, still
same old dive
with a shamrock or two.

Half-jawed man —
not familiar at all to me
from Rosie’s — must be
a McKendrick’s regular
from the assprint
in the bar stool —

coming toward me.
God, no,
don’t wanna talk to him —
turn to my beer —

too late. “Hey, kid,
I knew your dad from this place.”
At least, it
sounded like that.  
Someone seems to have cut
some of the coherence
out of his face.
“From
when it was Jack’s.” Jack’s,
a lifetime back.

“He was the Indian, right?
You’re half Indian?  From Jack’s.
I used to come over Saturday afternoons.
Worked on cars.  I’m the Impala
with the blue interior.”  And yeah,
now I know —

diggin out of swamp and cattails.  
Down by the tracks,
trying to salvage an old fender
from an abandoned car
that he said matched his. He
was wrong but tried to make it work
and afterward, the car
was odd. Looked like
a chipmunk, sticking out
on one side.

“Jack’s.  Remember me,
kid?  How’s your dad, how’s
the Chief these days?”  

Dead,
fender man.  Dead
from drinking and all that other
collateral.  “Ah, too bad.”

All this through
half-mouth.  Sunken
half a face,
bulge on the other side
like that fender.  

To be social
I ask, hey, still got that car?
Can’t recall, you’re who again? 
You got me right, half-right
anyway — I never hung out
at Jack’s, was a Rosie-rat,
still not sure about McKendrick’s.
But I’m my dad’s boy. Yeah.
All of me, not just half.

Never got an answer, just:

“Hey, listen.  Spot me
a beer?”  

Sure,
old man.  Spot you a few —
one for my dad,
one for Rosie’s, one for Jack’s
now McKendrick’s with
shamrocks on the backbar mirror,
half covering the dirt that’s been here
all along. Us too — old dirty,
covered up.  Half-showing.
Half the truth
coming out of our mouths.

Yeah, I remember you, old man.
Your smell.  Your fuller face
from back then.  You
remind me of 
you.  Of my dad.
Of me before
this place got that new name
but stayed pretty much the same,
just a few oldtimers gone missing now.
One, anyway. 
Half of a couple of others. 

Yeah, I’m the Indian’s
son.  Lemme get that beer.
Don’t talk. Please. Let the Indian
get this one.  Lemme
do it for the Chief
and get this round.  
Just don’t
talk. Just don’t remind me
how much
I’m half.