John L Bar By John Harold Olson

My Dad used to hangout in

this place that scared me when 

I was a kid looking for him.

Here I was,

Looking again, not for

continuity or connection,

no, just looking for that Maxfield Parrish

river of beer on a rainy afternoon.

The shuffleboard table

was free,

free because no one 

could face those chrome

pucks and that slippery deck.

A deck so long it wasn’t worth it.

Flossy, still behind the bar,

Flossy who used to tell my

Dad to go home,

Flossy made the connection.

It was written on her face,

another son following the path.

Flossy had seen it a thousand times.

It’s business.

“Can I get a hamburger 

and another Liney?”

“Sure, Doll,” Flossy said.

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.