Cutty Sark

Action Jackson

A creaky cursing

gaunt cricket of

a man all of five

feet the first four 

pure braggadocio

his head full of Cutty

Sark he would shout it

from the high barstools

Cuttyyyyy!!!! Saaaark!

drawing out the vowels

in a throaty screech

that pissed everyone

off every damn time

but that was what he

liked best because

he was Action Jackson 

to you eighty-two years 

dead drunk most of them 

but some said he made it

in Hollywood with many 

bit parts just as many 

fine dolls on each arm 

and he still imagined them

five whole decades later

he still had it with

the charmed bar flies

one or another

would stumble him home

when he could barely

talk or even see he drank

so crazily he would get

quite delirious then

harrasing the boys

shooting pool until

one would shake a stick

saying shut up you

fool but he couldn't

stop being himself

over the bar's hard

jukebox like one last 

call night I took him 

to his room around

the corner a stout

stucco green building 

in the streetlight

fishing out keys

from his dapper vest

pocket opening

his door to a dark

dusty hole with torn

curtains stained couch

where I let him slink

down in a sleeping

heap then stepping back 

out again before closing 

the dusty door behind me.

(Alnilam Bound, collected poems, 2005)