in 40 years
never managed a window seat
facing the wind in a local.
at office missed a window desk.
brushed up wordage on night shifts,
signed off editions,
scoops, bylines never his.
retired.
is at the Press Club corner, on a day grained with rain drops.
orders four rums -- one each for Joe, John and Jim --
for memories gone.
after the last dark hour,
the last friend,
the last rum from Mohammad,
stretches on the floor,
to the distant hum of the Sea and the Drive.
the Club is his, he of the Club.
an yellowed newsitem.