Big City Freight Train Blues
Poetry
Gregory O’Toole
$12

About the Author

GREGORY O’TOOLE has received awards from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Montana Arts Council. His work is part of the permanent collections of the University of California at Berkeley, Northwestern University, and John Carroll University Library. As a recent member of the Academy of American Poets, Big City Freight Train Blues has been recognized by the Valparaiso University Poetry Review 2005 - 2006 Recommended Books list.

Gone To See A Movie as A Prize Fighter Writer

It’s Sunday night and I’ve gone to see a movie as a writer,
out the front door, down the steps, bouncing out into the city streets,
horns honking, coffees steaming in hands of bustling citizens,
the cracked sidewalks with newspapers like a mogul run
down the long block of greystones and two-flat bungalow haven.The evening snowstorm in March is not unexpected.
The Chinese restaurant is always closed at this hour.
The gas station beer store, on the other hand, is always open.
People buying cigarettes and pumping foolish gasoline
with engines running, wintery exhaust filtering up
into the fluorescent glow.
Lotto scratch-off metal dust tickets that don’t match a thing.

Scuffing my blacktop alley soles along the pavement
I think about the film house, old broken down popcorn bags
one dollar a piece. No soda, bring your own, or bring your
whiskey if you need be. The movies usually aren’t that bad.

Rip rap on bullet proof glass, “One, please.”
“Only one tonight, suga?” she creamed back slowly.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding in the greasy dollar bills, “Just one.”
“You don’t look lonely.” She emphasized the word look in her statement and pulled pornographically on her cigarette.
“I’m not.” I smiled, and looked right past her to the black and white
Jack Dempsey poster hanging on the ticket office wall.

Passing by the velvet windows at Red Dragon after hours,
I seen myself hip hopping past the shops,
hands jammed down into front pants pockets, reflected
in the flat plane glass like a Portland Polaroid self-portrait—
not much like a solitaire drunkard in the streets,
but like a Belfast prize fighter, lean to the bones and muscle,
quick in the mind, fast on the bout,
right to the fists for any yip yap passer-by,
floating from the skinny profile,
proletariat knit hat tip-tilted atop my head