BIG BILL BUSTED

There was nothing special
about Big Bill’s Chevy
that he drove around okay
using a cane to gas and brake.
Except one drunken day
he tried to eat an ice cream cone
while parallel parking.
He dented a Cadillac
and the cops jailed him
for driving without legs.
He loves this story
more than the one
about punching out
a bulldog in mid-air
or kicking my ass
at the Idle Hour Bar
But lately, Bill neglects these
as well as his gambling
triumphs at Lincoln
Downs and Narragansett.
His vices have diminished.
He drinks V8 Juice spiked
with Worcestershire,
chugs non-alky beer.
He’s reduced to bingo and puffing
low-tar coffin nails.
Bill shows me a photo
of himself snapped at Lourdes
when he was in the Air Force.
He looks like Kerouac
but I don’t know whether
the resemblance would please
him so I keep quiet.
His third grade nun sent a
miraculous medal on a chain
that he twirls on a pointed finger
like a bored lifeguard
does a lanyard and whistle.
Bill’s depressed as hell!
To bring him back I ask,
“Are you fucking well
sure it wasn’t drunken driving
they got you for?

BIG BILL AND CHAUNCEY

Waving his bankbook around
at the Hitching Post Bar & Grille
as if it were the British flag,
Chauncy loudly lamented:
“By God, if I’m not good for a lousy
shot and beer who in the hell is?
I could buy and sell this fucking joint.”
Big Bill bought him a drink and said it
was a pleasure hearing a gent
blow his top in Cockney.
Big Bill eyed the bankbook
as if it were an invitation
to the Easy Money Ball.
With his arm over the old man’s
shoulder, he dusted off the accent
from his Air Force days in London.
He said a couple of blokes
like us should look after each other.
We can’t count on the fucking Queen!
They toasted her anyway and her hubby
and soccer and the horses at Newcastle
and Ascot and pounds and shillings
and warm fucking beer.
Bill named and rated dozens of pubs
and birds he’d bloody well enjoyed
before Chauncey begged for a ride downtown.
Big Bill gazed at the clock and broke into song:
“For God’s sake get me to the bank on time!”
They walked each other quickly out the door.
When Big Bill returned he was shaking
his head -- the bankbook had been dead
for years but at a watering hole where
they were strangers Chauncey shook
that prop again as if he were Churchill.
A couple of beers and shots appeared
and Big Bill felt he was nothing
but a rookie first time up
from some lowly
cricket team.

BIG BILL TAKES IT ON THE CHIN

Outside the Indian Lounge,
Leon beat the shit out
of Big Bill for cheating
him out of twenty at cards.
But there was no way Big
Bill was giving up the cash.
I saw the whole show
from slight of hand to
right cross and uppercut.
Driving Big Bill
to the Lily Pond Club
to wash the blood off
and drink himself numb
I said Leon was a mean
shit and everyone knew
it and he’d been nuts
to test him.
Bill said nothing just
kept a steady stream of spit
flying out the window
as if some kind of critter
marking off territory.
At the bar he silently
studied some lip
blood in his beer
like a lab technician.
Down deep I felt
guilty for not jumping
in to help Big Bill
and I told him so.
Finally draining
his glass in one gulp
he asked: you crazy,
chop up the fuckin’
twenty?

BIG BILL’S MUSIC

Big Bill said don’t laugh, Clint
Eastwood’s in it for Christ’s sake.
And I said, don’t apologize
for liking Paint Your Wagon.
I never saw it myself
but I like the song about
the wind The Kingston Trio
made a hit!
As a matter of fact
I dated a gal whose brother
used to sing “Goddamn”
lost instead of “gol’ darn.”
You do rattle on and on he said,
then put in his disclaimer.
It ain’t that I’m in love
with the fucking thing!
What the shit, I said, you did
a lot of painting in your life!
Shuddap, give me The Left-Handed Gun
anytime and I never killed anyone!
All I’m trying to tell you is
that Eastwood movie got me pussy!
This legless heathen is screwing
the blonde who runs this fucking
geezer and loser barracks!
Her ex husband hated musicals!
She’s got a pool like in Hollywood.
And to give you an idea of the size
of her brandy new shack—
when I had legs it might have
taken me three or four days
to paint myself.
Back then, Clint Eastwood
and musicals
could get the fuck lost.
All I needed then was someone
like you to come around mornings
to help me raise my “gol’ darn” ladder.

BIG BILL’S STREAK

I thought fists
would fly when drinkers
at the Indian Lounge
doubted Big Bill’s virility
and the good heart
and libido of his first wife
who he bragged had given him sex
each day for two years straight.
When the bartender screamed quiet down
or you’re all shut off Big Bill said,
since my witness would be
hostile and dicks don’t’
have meters, you assholes
can buy me a drink
and a shot and we’ll call
it a draw.
Then spotting me, he said
this kid goes to college,
he might testify
in my favor
if he hasn’t lost
his common sense yet.
I major in English
not biology, I said.
Good, Big Bill shouted!
Plain fucking English
is what’s needed here!
He sounded like
a cocky young professor,
author of a textbook
with footnotes as small
as the jottings of a wife
with large heart and libido
whose diary Big Bill would
have flashed around
without a qualm.