Poetry for the Hard of Hearing
Published on May 31, 2007 By Johnny Masuda In Poetry
when I was a boy
six or seven
I met this old Mexican drunk
named Gus

he would come to my mother’s
café in the sunny afternoons on
the Texas side of the Gulf Coast

drink Pearl beer with beads of sweat
glistening through the amber glass and
tell me stories

one Sunday I walked over to his
place
he lived in a travel court of shacks
that followed a circle drive that ended
where it started

it was warm already
maybe hot
he sat at a gray topped formica
kitchen table on worn vinyl chairs
supported by curved corroded metal
tubing

he had a German Sheppard dog
that sat at one end of the table wearing
Gus’ glasses with the Sunday paper
spread out in front of him

Gus called him Red and said the dog
wasn’t worth a shit till he had read the
paper and had a beer

I sat next to Red with my legs dangling
from the too tall chair waiting and watching

Red would make Gus turn the pages
by barking
the old brown man would turn the page
then let the dog slurp lavishly on
a tilted beer bottle
beer suds and dog spit would fly
everywhere

I thought it was hilarious.

J. Masuda

Comments
on Jun 01, 2007
How refreshing - what a sweet slice of life, drunk dog and all. Thanks, Johnny!