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Wednesday, July 24, 2013

HARVEY


The barber shop in town occupied
the basement of The Union House,
a room that sat beneath its bar and grill.
From time to time he'd stumble
down the stairs lubricated well
and singing an off color song he must
have picked up in the war. He was
a cheerful drunk and seemed to welcome
all the friendly insults the barber tossed
his way. Some customers joined in.

I watched and listened, rapt.

What I remember most is the time
he stopped and stared at me
and broke into a grin, then fished
into his pocket and flipped me
a half dollar. I caught it, stared at it,
and did not know what to do.
"Say thank you, Mr. Cole"
my father said. I did and looked
the giver in the face. "I ushed to be boy
onect," he said. "That was long ago."
I saw his bloodshot eyes were wet.
He used a dirty sleeve to wipe his face
then turned around to leave.
"It's hot as hell in here," he said.
"I think I hear them callin' me upstairs."

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