American Life in Poetry

In this poem by western New Yorker Judith Slater, we’re delivered to a location infamous for brewing American stories – a bar.

Like the stories of John Henry, Paul Bunyan, or the crane operator in this poem, tales of work can be extraordinary, heroic and, if they are sad, sometimes leavened by a little light.

In The Black Rock Tavern

The large man in the Budweiser tee

with serpents twining on his arms

has leukemia. It doesn’t seem right

but they’ve told him he won’t die for years

if he sticks with the treatment.

He’s talking about his years in the foundry,

running a crane on an overhead track in the mill.

Eight hours a day moving ingots into rollers.

Sometimes without a break

because of the bother of getting down.

Never had an accident.

Never hurt anyone. He had that much control.

His problem is that electricity

raced through his body and accumulated.

When he got down at the end of a shift

he could squeeze a forty-watt light bulb

between thumb and finger and make it flare.

All the guys came around to see that.