American Portrait (13) by Ken HarnischAmbrose lost and took the path down to the sea
We watched him go, the rain slicker wrapped around
His knees like a coiling python, glistening
In the maelstrom. We drank Molsons in the
Green bottles, and listened to the rain.
It rattled against the tin roof like
The hot drums of the Masai
Hard, frenetic, endless with its possibilities
Of becoming Noahs Flood
Or boiling our insides out
As we heard the waves come calling
Johnny Slats had three sevens
And Maurie had the chips piled high
Against the felt on his side of the table
And me, I was almost on a roll, I could feel it
When Ambrose noticed the dock light
Was swaying in the wind
And he frowned when no one
Moved, especially when Maurie said
Let the damn thing go till morning.
Poor old Ambrose
Taking it all so seriously then
His position as lighthouse keeper
Causing him to rise and say, They pay us
For this, you know. And we all looked at him blankly
And Maurie asked him what we got,
Exactly, for fixing a firefly in a hurricane
Light going crazy like that, he said in his
Hard New England voice, itll keep the strays from going out
On the water. Only fools and fisherman in this soup tonight
Anyway. See that light a-dancin and a flashin,
Theyll know to keep their distance
Smart those Gloucestermen, smart that way
They are.
Ambrose rose, getting on the gear
Trying to shame us
But I had two kings and Johnny Slats
Was bluffing with aces high
And the pot got higher with him betting
Like an ass. Maurie shrugged and got up for
More beer and said to Ambrose,
Sit my man, or go make coffee
Either/or
Itll be light before you know it.
But Ambrose bit his pipe and said, You laggards!
Ill tell you what
Draw for it
Low man loses and fixes the light.
He pressed his finger to the deck
And said Cut the cards, boy, to me
I looked up at the other two and
Maurie said, why not
So Johnny pulled a card and turned it over
Then Maurie, then Me
The deuce of clubs stared back at me
And my heart stopped cold
Ambrose flipped the King of Spades
In the middle of the table
Cursing through his pipe, he snarled,
Kids too green to go out side.
Kids too fawkin green.
And Maurie shrugged
While Johnny counted stacks of dwindling chips
And I just sat there, with bee-bee eyes of fear
You bastahds, Ambrose said and threw open the door
Scattering cards like paper chaff
Tipping bottles to the stone
The door slammed behind Ambrose
And we watched the yellow slicker bobbing in the
Halo of the light hung on the door
Until we couldnt see it
And no one spoke till
Maurie got some beers
And Johnny dealt more cards.
And an hour later, when we all went outside,
Calling Ambroses name
The rain tore at our skin
The wind clawed at our bones
And I noticed
The light wasnt bobbing
Anymore
But the yellow slicker
Was nowhere to be seen 04/12/2004 Posted on 04/12/2004 Copyright © 2023 Ken Harnisch
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Kate Demeree on 04/19/04 at 04:49 AM I sat here a long while after reading in awe of the way you spin the tale. Wonderful! Ambrose is such an unusual name... and adds something to the tale. Good to see you posting once again. |
Posted by Paganini Jones on 06/24/04 at 07:11 PM :)
Great tale, and great to find another American portrait here. This one stands out for me - mature writing |
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