No Prayers Needed for a Dying Man

There’s a man dying

On a bed

In the back

Of the bar

We don’t have

Anything

To say about him

But we ignore him

To give him

His dignity

He got to the bar

And never left

And because there used to be

Charm in the things

We find unsettling now

The man thinks he’s charming

And he finds his death

To be charming

In a Chekhovian kind of way

Because people die all the time

And some people see beauty in death

Provided there isn’t

Much coughing

Or destitution

We don’t know

If the man has a home

Because he won’t talk

About what happens

Outside the bar

But he loves to talk

About what goes on

Inside the bar

And we find that he’s

Something of a one-man history

Of the bar

Which astounds us

Because the bar has been around

Since long before we moved to the city

And stumbled across the dive

On a lonesome Tuesday

When we were looking for character

In a metropolis driven and designed

By a plot

The bed in the back

Is next to the restroom

And while you take care of business

You can hear the dying man

Singing ‘Delilah’ by Tom Jones

And when you exit the restroom

He asks you if you remembered

To wash your hands

And while taking hygiene advice

From a dying man

Seems coated

In a suspicious layer

Of irony

You show him your newly dried palms

And he grunts something

That sounds like approval

Inside the bar

The mood is somber

But it’s not because of the dying man
It’s because the bar

Hasn’t paid its rent

In a few years time

Nobody knows who owns the building

But whoever it is

They are either very generous

Or significantly delinquent

The bartender says

The dying man was in the back

When he got there

And all he was told

Was that the man was going to die

And when he did

Call the city

And have them come pick him up

So they can bury him

Wherever unfortunate people

Are buried

But that was years ago

And the dying man

Has continued to die

But never seems dead

Even on the nights

When his breathing slows

And his eyes transpertate

Sometimes he prays

But not often

And never with much

Conviction

When it’s closing time

And the lights are shuttered

It’s customary

For everyone left in the bar

To go in the back

And wish the dying man

A good evening

And promise him

Not to worry

Because he’ll surely

Be dead in the morning

But the next day

He’s still hanging on

And so the bar revives

And the music blares so loud

You can hear it

Through the walls

Of the next-door deli

And church across the street

Where they pray

For the sinners

Going in and out of the bar

But never the dying man

At the back of it

Not because they don’t believe

He deserves their prayers

But because they think

He might be an angel

Come to earth

To suffer

For the rest of us

No prayers needed

For a man

Who’s already

In Paradise