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Description
“I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds….my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
--Jack Kerouac, On The Road

i.
Old Northern Man’s voice broke
saying she was gone, fifty years together yesterday,
and now she’s gone, no face across his in the booth.
His shaking fingers, warped like old pier planks,
tried to scrub the tears before they fell
because he was old-fashioned as a gin martini
and men like him don’t cry in front of bartenders,
mist-eyed and uncertain whether to hug him
or give him the bill in silence.
He took his bill in silence and shuffled
through the Sheraton’s echoing
to the king size bed, half-empty.

ii.
Fayetteville Tech was alone at the bar,
hotel Sunday-empty of guests.
He was there waiting for his partner’s death,
but after saying the hospital was the best
they’d been to, talked of anything else.
He played a video of a rogue shark
jumping from the shallow Ocean Isle intracostal,
said Canadian brewers make most Kentucky whiskey,
and swore that Fayettenam
was being cleared of its strip clubs.
He really wanted to believe it,
but that’s just too many men, lonely and bored,
stuck together in one base.

iii.
When Butt-Chin walked in,
his hand-hold with his “daughter”
rang female warning bells,
but he was all smiles – she’s epileptic,
a special girl, we come here all the time,
oh really, an English major, me too,
read The Godfather, it’s mind-blowing,
sorry to keep you so long, good luck –
probably still smiling when he walked out
leaving only his signature
on an unpaid bill.

iv.
Knob Creek was center in the pack of three
that made the front desk girls swoon,
and despite their short hair, confident loudness
and love of top-shelf bourbon,
you’d have to hear them complain about Fayetteville
and make fun of the “yuppie locals”
to know for sure
what was behind the civilian camo.
Later, he would specify not just military but
Special Forces Medic,
intimacy issues included.

v.
Southern Boy
is a man, reminder of home, simple sweet
like milk chocolate Hersheys,
gentle-eyed, soft-spoken and constant:
bacon burger, medium, nothing else on it,
french fries, and a Budweiser.
Not a big tipper,
but sometimes you let that slide,
happy he’s happy, his father
a successful liver transplant,
his eyes never dipping down too far.

Description
“I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds….my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
--Jack Kerouac, On The Road

i.
Old Northern Man’s voice broke
saying she was gone, fifty years together yesterday,
and now she’s gone, no face across his in the booth.
His shaking fingers, warped like old pier planks,
tried to scrub the tears before they fell
because he was old-fashioned as a gin martini
and men like him don’t cry in front of bartenders,
mist-eyed and uncertain whether to hug him
or give him the bill in silence.
He took his bill in silence and shuffled
through the Sheraton’s echoing
to the king size bed, half-empty.

ii.
Fayetteville Tech was alone at the bar,
hotel Sunday-empty of guests.
He was there waiting for his partner’s death,
but after saying the hospital was the best
they’d been to, talked of anything else.
He played a video of a rogue shark
jumping from the shallow Ocean Isle intracostal,
said Canadian brewers make most Kentucky whiskey,
and swore that Fayettenam
was being cleared of its strip clubs.
He really wanted to believe it,
but that’s just too many men, lonely and bored,
stuck together in one base.

iii.
When Butt-Chin walked in,
his hand-hold with his “daughter”
rang female warning bells,
but he was all smiles – she’s epileptic,
a special girl, we come here all the time,
oh really, an English major, me too,
read The Godfather, it’s mind-blowing,
sorry to keep you so long, good luck –
probably still smiling when he walked out
leaving only his signature
on an unpaid bill.

iv.
Knob Creek was center in the pack of three
that made the front desk girls swoon,
and despite their short hair, confident loudness
and love of top-shelf bourbon,
you’d have to hear them complain about Fayetteville
and make fun of the “yuppie locals”
to know for sure
what was behind the civilian camo.
Later, he would specify not just military but
Special Forces Medic,
intimacy issues included.

v.
Southern Boy
is a man, reminder of home, simple sweet
like milk chocolate Hersheys,
gentle-eyed, soft-spoken and constant:
bacon burger, medium, nothing else on it,
french fries, and a Budweiser.
Not a big tipper,
but sometimes you let that slide,
happy he’s happy, his father
a successful liver transplant,
his eyes never dipping down too far.