Joe Flynn Poem by Bert Bell

.

old joe flynn comes in here
every day at noon and sits
at the same table― he holds

up two gnarled fingers of each
hand to the barman,
and the waiter brings him

two pints of draft and a couple
of pickled, hard-boiled eggs
on a plate― they don't speak,

they just nod at one another―
it's as if joe's unaware there's anyone
else in the place― he sprinkles salt

on his eggs and wolfs them down
to dilute the loneliness
that consumes him.