a half-inflated latex glove
lying in the crosswalk.
One finger popped
like a gunshot,
then an Escalade
popped two more.
The only one left,
erect as a condom,
was the one sticking up
in the middle.
Joe spilled his Peets
all over his black
Allstar hi-tops
as he leapt back
from the street.
Swore that nothing
like that ever happened
back in Modesto.
is a big umbrella with a broken rib
shading a faded tiger-striped couch.
Where a man not quite old,
but feeling the stack of his years
on the back of his neck dozes
and drifts into a leaf-scented dream.
He misses the dead grocery store,
the smell of leaded gasoline,
one pound cans of crab meat,
and non-filtered cigarettes.
Making kites with the funnies
and balsa wood sticks,
tails from old cotton sheets.
Warm wind nudging the spring grasses.
Deeper, slower. Now he dreams
of an ironing board doing jumping jacks,
and a refrigerator winks and smiles.
A teapot whistles the Andy Griffith Show theme.
A leaf falls from the arched branches
above him, flutters and spirals,
alights on his cheek. He wakes to
the scent of bay laurel, like his grandpa’s
Old Spice aftershave. The long ago
twelfth birthday present -a red leather
King James with his name embossed
on the cover inlaid with gold leaf.
And the words of the prophet Isaiah that
were his favorite, embossed on his mind
in that world with the kites, the perfume
of gasoline, and dancing ironing boards:
The wolf and the lamb shall feed together,
and the lion shall eat straw like the bullock:
and dust shall be the serpent's meat.
They shall not hurt nor destroy
in all my holy mountain, saith the Lord.
hearse is double parked
on King Street. The customary
coach for an honored custom.
Sitting silent, waiting for
the funeral at St Patricks
to end. Soft choral music
leaks out the side door.
The shrieks of children
in the schoolyard below
float up the driveway
reflect off the glossy hearse.
The storm has passed
leaving the last brown
winter leaves and twigs
blown off the trees
stranded just beyond
the gutter tracing lacy
patterns with the debris.
The magnolias though
have hung on to their
white and pink blossoms.
Too early yet to drop them.
The children’s laughs
and shouts now replaced
by ravens’ squawks,
engine noise, church bells.
The funeral has ended.
The rain is back, gentle
this time, but I wonder
how much more before
this place is drunk?
-He ran away from battle
-Do you even believe in God?
-Asshole, fuck you.
Pass the gravy please?
You’re pregnant aren’t you?
Well yes , but
Please don’t tell me
that you you’re not going to…
I’m sorry. it’s complicated.
Well. we’re
gonna leave now,
get back to City before the..
Yeah, well, I love you.
both of you, you know that
so if you need to talk…
Love you too,
thanks for everything
the turkey was delicious.
roars on and on, the sensor must be stuck.
Or perhaps some guy had a coronary
while zipping up his pants and now is wedged
in a position that triggered this Niagara.
The sinks and paper towel dispensers are
working quite efficiently. As are the attendants
with their buckets, mops and rags.
I wash my hands and wade back into the cave
of throbbing lights and faintly tobacco-scented air.
I can hardly smell the cigarettes, the fans and filters
must be powerful, efficient; everything is very efficient.
Especially the machines designed to take your money.
Credit cards accepted. The stools have tall backs,
excelent support for sitting cozy through the night.
No clocks or windows, the light subdued,
the rows and islands of slot machines glow softly,
all the fabulous names: Lucky Lucy, Wheel of Fortune, Pot-of-Gold
Martian Money, Pharoah's Fortune, Cash Splash, Lucky Charmer
how about Sizzling Sevens? Fruit Fiesta, Treasure Trail?
Ah, now there's a winner: Lucky Larry's Lobster Mania.
I could play with Monkeys Money, slay the Golden Dragon
get struck by Lucky Lightning if I'm a Cosmic Cat.
That's a Lotsaloot, Miss Cleopatra, is it from the Treasure Nile?
Can I get a cool buck from the Zany Zebra or is this Trick or Treat?
My fifty dollar limit evaporates, I'll hang on to this twenty,
take a walk around the cavern, see what else is here.
Marquee stars from forty years ago in the lounge, tribute bands.. ....
buffets and pubs and delis with long lines of people waiting to fill their bellies
or hunched over vinyl tables with a view of the action on the floor.
I don't think that I can eat here. I'm hungry, but there's this sound,
a massive chord of all the games, like hundreds of elevator chimes
and cell phone ring tones in a blender. And not much talking
not much laughter, so much attention focused on the vivid screens
and somewhere I hear a dolphin squealing. Flipper! is that you?
