Ghost Bar

I keep expecting the bar to close,
the worn building used up
like the occasional men
who hover outside it
stubble on their sunken faces
worn cigarette stalks
gripped between their gums.
Are they pausing between drinks
or waiting for an invitation?
It's a corner bar you can't see into,
one outside wall covered in posters
that are mysteriously exchanged
new for old, latest for passé.
Someone must make money
from the rental for that wall--
probably not the bartender though
if there is a bartender.
Music never splashes out
onto the sidewalk because the door
rarely opens and when it does,
slightly, there's still no music
only brown must and the ghost
of past St. Patrick's Days
when that bar exploded
with bagpipe players wearing kilts
sounding their drones and marching
into the startled street.

Finalist for the Margie 2007 Editor’s Prize Best Poem. From Margie, vol. 7, 2008. Copyright © 2008 by Felice Aull. All rights reserved. Included in The Music Behind Me (Alabaster Leaves Publishing, 2012)

 

On the Staircase

The first time I said yes to him
it was unspoken, just a nod
and he couldn't see my face.
He was a step above me
on the narrow metal staircase,
addressing the back of my head.
We teens were pouring down
to get to class, the bell  
dislodging us from lunch.
For weeks I'd seen him eyeing me
as I strode past him to buy soup.
I liked that he was watching.  

That day, he followed behind
gathering courage – as he told me
later – but only enough
to ask without looking.
And I, in a moony daze,
signaled yes, not missing a step,
not needing to see his face.

From Literature Today, vol. 5, 2016 Copyright © 2016 by Felice Aull. All rights reserved. 

Jackie Robinson, Father, and I
   
You can hardly see he is black
or discern his features,
he is so tiny, so far away
in the photo I shot--
box camera Brownie Target Six-16--
our seats at Ebbets Field
nowhere near home plate where
he took his stance
waiting for the pitch. But I know
he's Jackie Robinson, the reason
we had driven miles,
Pulaski Skyway leading us
to Brooklyn, my father and I.

Father's heavy German accent,
no sports fan, so whose idea
for this excursion, his or mine?
No matter, in this flashback 
we are one in fascination
with Jackie who is safe on first,
Father giggling, pointing
look look watch him 
as Jackie dances off the bag
then darts toward second 
SAFE!!, another stolen base
for the record books
and I rise up whooping.

My refugee father
and Jackie Robinson--both
outsiders sliding to safety.
And I, born overseas,
soon would speak the lingo,
find friends--
Robinson's pre-teen pupil
learning America's pastime.

From Off the Coast, Spring 2015 Copyright © 2015 by Felice Aull. All rights reserved. 
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