When the Killer
Couldn’t Fill a Barroom
The souvenirs came easy.
What some called flawed
we called charmed, as in a spell,
endearing as a heel-sized hole
in the oak bench we stole
from the club in Paintsville,
right after The Killer beat the tune
back into an old Starr. I remember
his right foot twisting like he was
putting out a smoke in spite,
his left leg stomping and kicking
in harmony with those Louisiana
hands. He didn’t know we were
there, even as we touched him,
even as his notes rose to the rafters
like demons from hell to earth
and shook the dust back down
into the music. We let it hit our tongues
and burn like dabs of bourbon,
like the sweat in our eyes.
Six minutes into the haze
of Whole Lotta
Shakin’ Goin’ On
he whipped his head back, the cocking
of a pistol, then struck the stage with his left
foot like a hammer and fired back
into the song, his right heel driving
the bench back into the wall. When
the show ended and the bar cleared,
we snuck the broken stool onto our truck
bed, warning each other not to break it—
not to destruct the already shattered
wood. It had the dead weight of a drunk
man, the same aura of invincibility.
It would’ve been a sin to sit on it,
we decided, to use it for anything
other than a reminder of Mr. Lewis
and his magic. And so we gathered on
the floor that night and whispered
into the mysterious hole like a confessional,
asked, as if The Killer would answer,
how something can be so sturdy while hollow,
so equally broken and whole.
so equally broken and whole.
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