A HOARDER OF SMALL THINGS

I am a hoarder of small things with plain stories to tell 

if you look closely enough. How that one lone yellow die, 

buried in the dirt—its lost mates, long gone—

still hankered for the darkness of the leather liar’s cup 

that tumped down on the mahogany bar like a fist

at Speck McAuliffe‘s Lagunitas Lodge. He rolled the dice.

The long mahogany bar was my runway, sticky as flypaper, 

where I could crawl and observe the adults up close. 

My aunts, thirsty after picking berries in the creek,

amid sizzling crickets and relentless summer heat, 

nursed tall Tom Collinses garnished with lime, while I

was thinking of the pies that my grandmother would make.

And Old Pete, the last real cowboy, a mule skinner,

perched on a stool at the end of the bar that no one dared use, 

rolled his cigarettes one-handed, and lived out back 

in a Slipstream, with his strawberry roan in a makeshift corral.

And Speck wiping down the bar with a threadbare rag,

told stories punctuated by a nasal Boston drone 

by way of the Mission, like a politician or petty king.

Those ivory dice decided the transitory fate of so many, 

from who was going to buy the next round, calling out

from snake eyes to boxcars, was there enough time 

to knock back another one, or to leave the wife behind?

After all, it was midday. In the cavernous darkness of that bar, 

time itself was suspended. On leave. But no one ever turned 

down the politics of a free boilermaker or a whiskey neat.

I listened to their unfinished stories that bled like old wounds, 

ate the odd snack of stick matches or cigarette butts, seeds  

that even Pete’s mean old green parrot, rejected.

He swore like a sailor every time that liar’s cup hit the bar, 

and churlishly rejected my childish offerings,

no matter how carefully I tried to disguise them 

amid the hulls of sunflower seeds. His baleful yellow eyes

like small suns followed me as he edged closer 

to grab my finger, his black leathery tongue 

and cruel beak seeking revenge on all humankind.

8/10 Write On! Susie Terence 

• See part 1, The collector
• First draft

I am a hoarder of small things, an undocumented past, 

collecting things with stories to tell if you look closely enough. 

How that one lone yellow die, long buried in the dirt,  

its long lost mate, gone—along with the leather liar’s cup 

that once tumped down on the mahogany bar 

at Speck McAuliffe‘s Lagunitas Lodge, how did it get there?

I crawled along that bar like a narrow lane, sticky as flypaper,

where I could observe the adults up close. 

My aunts and uncles reunited after berry picking in the creek 

and summer heat, sizzling crickets in the summer heat. 

And old Pete, the last real cowboy, a teamster,

rolling his cigarette one-handed at his stool the end of the bar, 

who lived in the Slipstream out back with his strawberry roan.

With Spike himself residing at the bar who carried on, 

stories punctuated by a nasal Boston drone by way of the Mission, 

presiding over his subjects like a politician or a king.

Those ivory dice decided the temporary fate of so many, 

from who was going to buy the next round 

to whether or not there was time to knock back another one? 

After all, it was midday. But no one ever said no, 

so I collected their matches and cigarette butts, 

watching them, listening to their pointless stories, 

ate odd snacks that even the old green parrot 

who swore like a sailor every time the liar’s cup hit the bar, 

abhorred.