Gossip

            By Thom
Gunn

            
               (posted Wednesday,
March 11)
            

            To hear the poet read
"Gossip," click .

            

               I
            

            First saw himon the street
in front, in thebar's garbage, identifyingunfinished beers and swiggingoff what
was left of them,shameless and exuberantremarking in friendly fashion"It's a
doggy dog world."Charming error. Hehad little idea of his lookscaught on a
brief sillbetween youthful lean timesand blowziness to come,and too unfocused
to tryhustling more than beerand a night out of the rain.Later, circling
vaguelythe bar's deep dark inside,"Hitched up from New Orleans,"he said, "here,
wanna feel it?"It was already out,pushed soft into my hand. It wasa lovely gift
to offer an oldstranger            without conditions,a present from New
Orleansin a doggy dog world.

            

               II
            

            Stories of
bar-fights,boasts of glory.That's the old cattelling them, that onewith the
tattered ear."Yeah," he says,"I was passing the wash houseback of the farm
kitchen,where I sometimes got handouts,and there's this passel of kittensin a
basket, mewingtheir fuckn heads off. Well,some of them were male,future toms.
You know I hadto do something about that.So I dove in, checkingthem males like
I always can(call it a talent), and I bit offthe heads of the ahcompetition.
Heh, the little galsI left to grow up a bit.Then there was that time,I was
still in the Marines,facing a bar full of sailorswith jest a broken bottle
..."Vaunting voice grateson and on, nobody listening, untilhe has drunk
himselfasleep. No longer deadly,no longer dashing, nothing buta shabby old
tabby.