JACOB WIRTH  ( Boston, Mass.  1868 to? )

The sawdust

on the floor

has gone the way

of all dust.

But it is the hard slap

of the house dark

on the dark, mahogany bar

that sustains me.

Yes ,

they have made

concessions

to a high

definition TV

but the ancient

beaten ivories

of the piano

still hold its torch songs

on Friday nights.

And

it seems

there is  still a wholesome , yellow statement

of cornbread,

and a saucer of

baked beans.

The long dining room

has stretched over 100 years

and in the rear

there is a pay phone

in its battered booth

before you hit the head.

And that din of laughter--

(and I admit

I miss the cigar smoke)

and the bright red--

sheaves of corned beef

sprouting from dark bread.

What was once alive in this city

is still

not quite

dead.