For Al Purdy

the bar is closing

the doors locked

the bartender was cashing out

the waitress with big pancake breasts counting tips

the barroom cleaner putting chairs on tables

the end of another labour-pool work week

I sit finishing off a mug of beer

empty mugs in front of me

I stare into the mirror behind the bar

long tangled cement-dust hair

hardened tortured hands

hard hat

work gloves

pouch

hammer

nails scattered out onto the bar

a week of digging holes

jack-hammering 4 storeys underground

I look across the deserted bar

“Drink up, Joe. Hell is closed.”

laughing out the side of his mouth

Killing me the rest of the way.