The Old Man's Bar Poem by John F. McCullagh

It's been two years since my uncle passed,
his estate tied up in litigation.
Now that the matter's been resolved at last
the old man's bar is my destination.
It must be cleaned out and prepped for sale.
I drew the short straw, thus begins my tale.

The place was a time capsule of that past
when three ball clubs called New York home.
What to keep, what to discard?
These choices I must make alone.
In my mind's eye I see him here;
holding court behind the bar.
On tap were seven kinds of beer
and bottles on ice if you wanted more.
There was top shelf liquors of every description
He was glad to dispense them without a prescription.
In the back was the kitchen
where my cousins made
Sandwiches for the construction trade
My uncle owned a double store
A bar with a billiards room right next door.

near the back is a pay phone booth;
these use to be everywhere in my youth.
Out of habit I jammed my finger in the slot
in search of change someone forgot.
Just then that ancient phone did ring-
a most extraordinary thing!

"Hello", I said, then, on the other end,
His brogue unmistakable across the years,

was the voice I thought I'd never hear again.