Letter To My Brother From Christy's
"Ladies and gentlemen, direct from the bar, here's Dean!
Joey quips after one song"
Christy's Sundown: where we uncorked a bottle
of wine to dine in the Vegas-style setting
of your favorite restaurant when I came to town
almost expecting to find Frankie and the gang,
holding court at a big table with his Rat Pack
clown, Sammy, and the Italian and Jewish boys
crowded 'round, drinking and cracking
inside jokes to lots of booze and lots of smokes
that didn't seem to hurt the singing notes.
I am getting a little stoned tonight because the sun
sets at Christy's, knowing you are ashes, now,
dear heart, that's why I am getting stoned.
Always knew how to do that--a few glasses before,
and after, feels better writing a letter not sitting
across from you. Mr. Christy ('Nick,' to you
because you were a close one), fluttered my heart
before it filled, metaphorically speaking, with ashes,
yet, still, there's this echo of a time when the fine
Mr. Christy came by our table with a surprisingly limp
handshake for your big sister. Me, thinking, Show me
the passion, big Dude! El Greco! No wimp! Gee,
you were the fire that made Helen flee.
This night in near-empty salon rooms, a few
old souls sup in silence, and then I am alone except
for celebrity photos on the foyer walls: Christy's
cronies consigned to the reception gallery.
You, not among these famous faces, nor am I,
and here's why. We did not hang with Dean Martin,
Kenny Rogers, Joey Bishop, Gary Merrill, ('Best
to Nick, a great restaurant'), Art Linkletter or any
others of the long-gone great. We never broke bread
with Anita Bryant (thank God), or dove with Esther
Williams into the soup du jour, or sat beside sublime
Miss America, 1969. Only photos share stamina
to retain their glamour. A good restauranteur
has friends in high places. So, Smile, Brother --
You're on Celestial Camera.
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