He joined me, uninvited, at the bar: a roly-
poly dietician, his fractured jaw half bowling-ball
size and black. Over soda and lime, he gave me
his hardline battery hen philosophy:
Eating an egg is like eating a piece of Hell.
And more: the dietician had seen the Devil,
once, stepping out of a painting dressed
in sandals and a straw hat. Not only that — the Devil
followed him home and for six months hen-pecked:
Why not do yourself in. A close call. Still,
he survived. He’d had worse: like the solid hour
locked in a freighter’s cold-storage compartment,
slipping on frozen kippers. Only now
he sees faces by the roadside in weeds and flowers,
my own face falling, as he rose, and simply said:
We’ll meet again. I’ll know where to find you.
From “Fire Stations”
AuthorA.B. Jackson