hey, said my friend, I want you to meet
Hangdog Harry, he reminds me of you,
and I said, all right, and we went to
this cheap hotel.
old men sitting around watching
some program on the tv in the lobby
as we went up the stairway
to 209 and there was Hangdog
sitting in a straight strawback chair
bottle of wine at his feet
last year’s calendar on the wall,
“you guys sit down,” he said,
“that’s the problem:
man’s inhumanity to man.”
we watched him slowly roll a
Bull Durham cigarette.
“I’ve got a 17 inch neck and I’ll kill
anybody who fucks with me.”
he licked his cigarette
then spit on the rug.
“just like home here. feel free.”
“how you feeling, Hangdog?” asked
my friend.
“terrible. I’m in love with a whore,
haven’t seen her in 3 or 4 weeks.”
“what you think she’s doing, Hang?”
“well, right now about now I’d say
she’s sucking some turkeyneck.”
he picked up his wine bottle
took a tremendous drain.
“look,” my friend said to Hangdog,
“we’ve got to get going.”
“o.k., time and tide, they don’t
wait...”
he looked at me:
“whatcha say your name was?”
“Salomski.”
“pleased to meet cha, kid.”
“likewise.”
we went down the stairway
they were still in the lobby
looking at t.v.
“what did you think of him?”
my friend asked.
“shit,” I said, “he was really
all right. yes.”
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