Monday, September 5, 2022

Devil Dogs

by Brett Rutherford

Worst birthday yet,
rained-over, dark,
jostle of umbrellas
and the hiss of tires
on Sixth Avenue.

I have no money.
My two press helpers
will have to wait
if no check comes
from those who owe.

I am not sure
of dinner. The rent
is paid, just barely.
How anyone lives
in Manhattan
without a trust fund
is still a mystery.

Still, the press runs.
Papers pile up
for folding. A fast
hundred dollars
could walk in the door
at any moment.

I wonder about
the cast iron building
across from my loft.
Typesetters are there
with old linotypes,
printers like me
working late nights
sometimes. Do they
go through these
weekly agonies?
Probably.

When I stop the press,
Claudia and the other
are huddled together
at the window sill.
Matches are being lit:
what? smoking, here,
in this firetrap?

I go to see, and
"Happy Birthday!"
regales me.
"We had no money,"
Claudia tells me.
"But we
improvised."

I look down to see
candles, tiny,
twenty-five,
straddling two,
minuscule
chocolate
cylinders,
cake-pastry known
as "Devil Dogs."

I weep with joy
remembering.


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