Lou Faber



“Another,” he said,

his knees pressing

against the mahogany panels

of the old bar,

“and keep them coming

until I can take no more.

There won’t be

a last call tonight.”

The clatter of caroming

billiard balls cut

through the cigarette smoke

that curled against

the etched, streaked mirror,

over the din of karaoke.

As the bartender rinsed

and wiped the glasses

with a beigy cotton towel

and walked to the storeroom

he lifted the shot glass.

“This one’s for you Ginsberg,”

as he had earlier for Lowell,

Reznikoff, the others.

Much later as the sun

rose slowly, as his head

rested in his left hand,

he struggled to grab the small glass,

lifted it painfully

from the ash littered bar top

and in a sodden, slurred voice

whispered, head falling

against the wood, “and this

is for you Corso.”


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