So Long
When Chet’s going cold
turkey, can’t work
long solos, his trio must
rescue the slack
as Chet stalls and paces
and instead of resting
places his horn
on the barstool.
Spinning the seat
he watches soft light
ricochets off the brass
and a dim glow
of accusation play
roulette on his face,
Arm twitching
for the trumpet, he drags
long on a cigarette
before hoisting his horn
He closes his eyes,
brailles the brass,
as wandering lyrics
perch restlessly
on his tongue.
“Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little…”
Pistons like syringe plungers
shake him. Death jerking
horn to mouth, he blows and blows,
blows clear of wives, lovers
and children: clear of himself.
Lost in applause Chet wonders
how long art based on Taps
can last; he traces his lucky
vein, dwells on the spitty air
streams tricked into music,
tastes the words:
“Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little.”
Omelet
The man who did twelve
years says he has two
Honorables covering eight
and a Medical Discharge
for the rest that does not
state a reason but he’ll tattle
after a minute or so gabbing
that booze graced most
of his sailor days—
take that, jump ship,
use some imagination.
A mongrel in the corner stares
at him head tilted quizzically.
Civilian-wise, he’s been
DUI convicted five times
and he’ll proudly name
states, cities, fines
and incarcerations.
All that aside, he’s been doing
pretty well, dry a couple of months
but a reunion revealed
that tipsy on memories is likely
to diminish per shipmate arrival.
No Taps or Reveille,
morning delivered him
animated and unwinding
amid strong urging to enjoy
the three-egg cheese omelet
dwarfing his plate.
Managing a bite, he halts and cuts
to his first liberty in the Philippines.
Holding up three fingers he says
Count them! All mine for a week!
My harem fought over rights
to little ole me,
butterfly knives settled
each day’s first possession!
Dangerous shit, he adds,
glancing at a pistol hanging
off a the host’s rifle rack
like a stepchild
and no one disagrees.
Many attempts to top that
account fail but a couple
of guys are too busy to compete
fashioning joints and tobacco
smokes using nifty rolling devices.
The Mongrel is named Jesse
and she barks her two-cents worth
and more as if all these sea and terra
firma tales pale against what
she could gush concerning
her existence before
adoption discharged her
honorably from a shelter.
A hunk of omelet overboard
passes for gourmet
among this howling dog
pound of a crew.
McDade is a former computer programmer living in Monroe, CT with his wife, no kids, no pets. He did two hitches in the U.S. Navy. He’s been most recently pulished in New Maps.
