Hank appears
as wrinkled concrete
all powder gray with age…
a cigarette limp between lips…
beneath a gin blossom nose…
a trophy bestowed
for excellence in excess…
He stands
wrapped in yellowed linen…
a suit seldom worn
but for special occasions…
the worn, brown felt fedora
pulled down
across a craggy brow…
He stares
at the rolled pages…
the ash from his cigarette
finding a home in the race form…
there between the 4th and 5th race…
there to mark Daddy’s Big Mistake…
a long shot worth a glance
and maybe another $2 bet…
He coughs
a whisky and smokers hack
that rattles in his chest
and rattles in my ears…
looking up from his racing form
he finally spies me lying here…
squinting through a trail
of blue smoke rising
from the glowing end
of a generic cigarette…
He growls,
‘hey,’ so matter-of-factly
as if his presence should be
nothing out of the ordinary…
‘did you get the new book?’
he continues,
his brow twisting
into a question mark…
‘yes,’ I answer, ‘got it today’…
I glanced
to the bedside,
the book lay there
all pristine and new…
with that virgin book smell…
a combination
of aromatic inks
and acid free paper…
He continued
‘what d’you think?’…
‘I think it’s another winner,’
I respond, smiling…
‘but Hank, do you really care
what I think about it?’…
‘nope,’ he states flatly,
‘I wrote for myself,
so if you like it fine, if not,
who cares?’…
I awake
as the mantel clock
chimes out midnight…
I find myself lying in bed..
I gaze through blurry eyes
at the volume lying on my chest…
my copy of Bukowski’s
‘The Flash
of Lightning Behind the Mountain’
I look to the bedside table
where the book had been
and it’s empty…
in its place
the alarm clock sits
with its red numeral as a reminder
that yet another day has past…
I think
I must have dozed off…
right in the middle
of Hank’s visit to the doctor…
I find my bookmark
slip it between crisp pages…
yawning, as I dismiss another day…
I place the book on the table
and reach to turn off the lamp…
the apparition catches my eye…
Hank floats
just off the foot of my bed…
looking a bit distant
or maybe reluctant…
I say to him, ‘oh, you care’
he snaps back, ‘what?”
I said ‘you care…
about what people think
about you’re writing…
oh, crusty old Hank would like
to make us think he doesn’t…
but you were the man, the author
consumed by his writing…
you were a writer and a poet,
with an ego and voice…
you have no choice…
of course you care!’
He smiles
one of those bent Hank smiles…
those all-knowing sort of smiles…
he growls again, ‘it feels good
to be right, doesn’t it?…
enjoy it, it doesn’t happen often’
He disappears
like smoke on a breeze…
I turn the knob on the lamp
plunging the room into darkness…
my head sinks into the pillow
as I think to myself,
‘only in our dreams Hank,
only in our dreams’…
I hear his laughter fading
as I cross the threshold
into welcome sleep…
g’night Hank…
R. C. Arquette 2/11/05
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