Late one night,
much later at night,
than strangers should be met,
I talked to a man.

He sat at the end of the bar.

Everyone else,
3 or 4 seats away.

He had an air about.
The bar light above-
burned out.

I studied him for a while.

His glasses-
broken and repaired,
many times over.

His clothes- roadworn.

Downcast.
Gloomy.
Dejected.

A hanged dog.

I couldn’t help but feel
a kind of kinship
from across the bar.

As I went outside,
I passed by
and held out a smoke.
A gesture of friendship.
Nodding my head
toward the door,
as if to say,
‘let’s have a chat, old man.’

He looked up at me,
with not a light in his eye.
His mouth hung ajar.
Desperately grasped
his cheap Hamms beer.

After staring at me a while, he spoke,

“Okay, pal, but first you gotta buy me a beer.”

I motioned to Jason, who kept a fine bar.
He scowled and came up to me.

“Ben, you shouldn’t talk to him,
let alone buy him a drink.”

I gave him a rude glance.
Reluctantly, he served us.

Silently, we took our two
Pabst tall boys out
for some fresh air.

The man slung his pack against the wall,
and took a seat beside it.
I just sat in a chair.

He exhaled a deep sigh,

“He’s right, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a bad man.”

“How do you mean?”

“I am Lakota!  Don’t you know!?”

“So why does that make you bad?”

“We were the killers of white men.
You never forgave us.
You took everything.
And now we are
ghosts in our own land.
So I left Dakota way
just to see if I
fit in anywhere.
I don’t.

I don’t….
Know what to do anymore.
I just keep traveling on.
Wherever my feet will go.”

My youthful enthusiasm faded.

We just sat in silence, together.
Chainsmoking American Spirits
and drinking Pabst for a while.

“Welp, I outa keep a’movin’.”
As he got up and slung his pack over his shoulder.
“Be seein’ ya kid.  Thanks for everything.”

I said goodbye, and that was that.
The ghost faded into the darkness down the block.