This is a cautionary tale about drink.
Setting in a bar.
Appropriately.
This title comes from a Scottish euphemism for the grave.
"The Long Home."
"I hadn't been back in 20 years, and he was still here,
by the fire, at the far end of the longest part counter
in Aberdeen, some say Scotland.
Not many in, and my favorite time, the dog watch.
The city is still working.
Its tortoiseshell light just legible in the smoked windows.
And through the slow delay of glass,
the streetlights batting into life.
The firewood sap buzzing like a trapped fly.
The granular crackle of the green finals
folded and unfolded.
The sound of the calls and wrapping themselves
like sweets.
He only looked up when the barman
poured a bucket full of ice into the sink,
like a tremendous burst of applause.
He was drinking Sweetheart Stout and whiskey,
staring into the glass of malt as
if it were the past, occasionally,
taking the pool on the long brown bottle.
I remember him telling me with that grim smile,
"I'm washing my wounds in alcohol."
I like to drink, too, but would always
leave before him, walking home, as if on a wire,
I'd heard what had happened, but wasn't ready
for the terrible wake all down at one side.
The turn in his mouth, and his face's hectic blaze.
He left here so bad, he could barely stand.
He got through his door, back to his room,
and passed out for the night, sleeping
like a log with his head in the fire."