Raoul

WHERE IS RAOUL MASON?

I never see him around anymore.

He used to be here all the time,
Monday, Sunday, and Tuesday nights,
head bowed down,
hand bent around the back of his neck,
staring into his beer and whiskey,
his glasses pressed tight against his face.

Him, grimacing mysteriously,
thinking those thoughts which all of us,
his friends, wanted so badly to know.
But we never knew what Raoul was thinking
as he sat, the dark figure, in the dark corner,
thinking his dark thoughts,
squirming in his plaid cotton shirt.
Last I heard, he was working as a barback
in a club on Delaware Avenue, straining
that long, thin back of his
lifting cases of cheap beer and wine.
Don't even see him at Fergie's anymore,
where he used to hang out every night
Dave Rogers was working
and sit just like he did at Doobie's.
It's hard not to miss Raoul now,
although I probably never said all that
much to him when he hung around
about how much I loved him as a friend,
I wonder if he visits Dave at Serrano's?

Where is your life now, Raoul? Where do those
sad eyes stare into your whiskey shot?
Did I ever mention how much your face
made me think of mountains? Probably not.
Are you still playing all night poker games?

Do you still love to stroke a cat's belly?
Even Amelia misses you.
If only there weren't so much
running around, we might understand
something.
But then, new lives are like that,
You have to get back on the train so many
times before you find the right stop.

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