Registrar of births, marriages, deaths

Thank you Nige. I enjoyed the challenge of writing this, though none may enjoy the challenge of reading it!

For history, this place was neat -

in SoHo district, Prince its way;

from speakeasy through to The Beat -

Bob Dylan an habitué -

agora, haunt for artists’ play.

Where Rocky Graziano drank -

those phantoms of a former age -

now ghosts, wraiths, shades and wights hold rank,

those mispers written, penned on page,

now lost from records, left the stage.

How far, New York, here from Skid Row,

but dare they leave their pitch, reserved,

or then could they afford to go -

and is dog welcome, even served,

decorum, hygiene ill preserved?

The night shift workers are on show

encountered order, as through door,

his stool reserved, for all know Joe,

those woes he shares of her indoors,

who snores and bores with lists of chores.

Sean Brachan - wife just given birth -

soiled nappies ready, his return,

awake and yelling all her worth -

so he grabs doze behind the urn,

calm dreams of little daughter Fern.

Here’s Parky, the insomniac,

whose restless legs prevent relax,

though never speaks of disease, Jack -

but jokes, his wealth made from kickbacks -

a lover of the Blues with sax.

Bag lady, nameless, brings own mug -

no care for small cup that’s supplied,

though vessel more the size of jug;

these folk with whom she can confide -

found new dimensions when she cried.

They’ll keep Fred’s place for now at least

as if he owned the furnishing;

for wake they held a midnight feast,

as past year, for his last wedding,

when heard his life was finishing.

The brew is hot, sweet, black, steamy -

just as most nightly custom’s crew,

while sidewalk tricks, pimps, all seamy -

just passers by, as sidle through,

the hustlers on site in full view.

So here is life - birth, marriage, death,

and staff must register them all,

as counsellors, confessors’ breath,

like priests without vocation’s call,

where famous once would have a ball.