The Devil’s Bartender

by AE Hines

I serve the booze, but know 
never to play cards — he always wins, 
and every man here owes him money. 
He’s good to have around — 
all those sweaty jokers coming in thirsty,
to cut their deals, clamoring to refill 
empty pints and vacant accounts.  
 
Like the rest of them, he can’t shut up 
about his girl troubles.  Goes on 
about that first woman, who still won’t 
return his calls, can’t forgive 
that long ago madness with the tree. 
“Hell hath no fury,” I finally say, 
laying down another round.
“To forgive, is divine,” he says, and then
we both laugh.

Of course, he’s got his Daddy issues.
Hated the family business,
hated it so much, he went
into competition.  Not the first kid  
kicked out of the house, not the first 
father to not understand. 
But the way he talks 
and talks, you can tell
he misses home.  

One time, he brought the old man by.
Short, thinner than I imagined, 
and although he smiled when I spoke, 
deaf as a rock. I poured them whiskey 
and listened as the son bragged 
about work, the state of the world,
then talked about the good old days 
back before the fall. It broke my heart,
to see how much the son 
cared, how he rambled on,                  
as if the old man, nodding, could hear.

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AE Hines is a poet who grew up in North Carolina and currently resides in Portland, Oregon. A recent Pushcart nominee, he has published widely in anthologies and literary journals such as Potomac Review, Atlanta Review, and Hawaii Pacific Review. He is currently at work on his first full length manuscript. www.aehines.net