In the morning hours
After the toasting of
the new year, we’re in
The Lark, having one
for our late friend Glenn
former owner of the bar.
The guy next to me says,
“Don’t I know you?”
“Harry?” I say.
“And you are?”
“Al.”
“Right. How you doing?”
“I’m living.”
“I hear that.”
Our only previous social
interaction as pallbearers
in killed-in-horrific car accident,
former Lark owner, Glenn’s
funeral. The conversation goes
precipitously downhill
from there. Where else
could it go?