Sharkey’s

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Down there
To Sharkey’s Tavern
On the tracks
By the river
Across from the mill
Men pile into tapped beer and sing
Songs of missing fingers snipped clear by a shear brake
Or melted off from being too near the forge.

Down there
They rest their scabbed elbows on the plank bar
Eat pickled eggs in purple vinegar
With dill and hot chili seeds
Then fart fire eggs of hell’s sulfur
Eager to claim the ones that burn most and bring tears.

Down there
They always have a bump
With their beer
And salted green tomatoes
If they’re in season.

Down there
An oversized dill pickle|
Or a heavy snow
Can dominate conversation
For a decade.

Down there
Wounds are licked with rough tongues
And sometimes late at night
Near the bottom of a bottle
That pain is squared with fists.

But
When the steel industry moves to China
And the mill shuts
Razors settle tabs
With wrists.