Blue Head Of Death by Alan Catlin

In the dream, Ernie, the dead guy
in the Men’s Room, rises from where
he had been prone, stretches his back
and shoulder muscles, says, “I feel better,
now. Must have been something I ate.”
Or maybe it was the skunk weed he smoked
in the car with the two freaked chicks
he’s picked up in some gin joint on
the strip, who were relived, laughing now,
and the one with the round earrings the size
of hoola hoops says, ”You sure had us
worried. Let’s have those steaks and
cocktails you promised us.” And Ernie
would drink the extra dry martini left on
their table in his absence after he had
excused himself as dizzy and unwell
and never returned. Not in this lifetime
anyway, though I sense his spirit every
night when locking up, checking the bathrooms
for stragglers, drunks and bodies. You’d be
surprised how many you find, especially
when one of the dead guy’s spirit refuses to
move on no matter how much salt you
sprinkle in the corners, in the stalls, on the floor,
no matter how many prayers and promises
you offer, Ernie remains, eyes wide and unseeing
inside that blue head of death.

acatlin multi

Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine


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