Tatum Poem by Rich Harney

All the ticklers were in,
a sort of night gravity
to wherever He might
be sipping Pabst Blue.

A few saved their coins for
the rot gut….
a ploy to see if
He could still spin miracles
after.

In the shadows,
He sat at cards,
Black jack,
with one diabolical eye,
keeping it partially glued
to all the would be comers.

His back to the dusty upright,
piled with bottles of bathtub
"leave one there for me when
I come…
when it's my turn
to cut plaster from
the walls"

The message past from one
stoner to another
till it reached The Lion…
Mmm… Willie murmured….
unsure.
Fist down! It's blood!
Handfuls of chords
cascade down through
basements of burning
88's … and history.

Bowler hat cocked.
steam and cigar smoke
puffed,
never heard like that again.

James P. St…rode
The Mule.
Keep off my grass.

Things got territorial,
until it swung
into
the wee hours
and locomotive
dead fingers were
sapped,
andthen
He snapped…

A sudden while
all the picture boy's faces
were grinning … He's done.

The Tiger Rag

lit the Lions cigar
when he wasn't looking,
(rolled uncomfortably
to the other side)

Something like a cannon
wrapped in velvet
split the early morning.

Deaf ears were suddenly
caverns of emeralds and
diamonds.
The blues never sounded
so sweet,
Aunt Hager herself
would be weeping.

This reflecting of hearts
went on till noon
when true Art was all
that was left…

Tatum I mean.