he's got lupus
fucker's ninety-three
i think he's holding on
just to spite me,
says the man
face like a
manhole cover
sitting next to me
at shooters
on a
monday night.

says he's
waiting for his
father in law
to die
so he can sell
his trailer.

then he's gonna
buy a harley fat-boy
and disappear
into the black hills
like a sasquatch.

i take my shoe off
slam it on the bar
and shout:

long live max.

max was the cook here
for twenty years
died of a heart attack
face first
into the fryer.

mondays are two-for-one
in his honor
but only if you go through
the shoe slam
dog and pony.

i slide
manhole cover
one of the
dead nazis
and ask what
he's gonna do
with his wife
after he gets
the harley.

shit rolls downhill,
he says.

like a toboggan,
i say

&

we smile

&

drink to that.