Monday, March 23, 2009

kentucky fitz

This was a dream he had often
and it went like this:
she poured sugar into her mug
of black coffee, steam rising
like a deja vu and he could hear
every granule of the god
forsaken cane
she put her fingertips
on the grains that missed
the cup, fingerprints owning
everything they touched.
She lifted her heavy
spoon and the sound
of it was like a timer,
like a clock two three four;

he woke up screaming
in a diner
in Kentucky with a woman
holding money, small change,
she was screaming, "Jesus
Merle, it's a family restaurant
Jesus Christ you always fucking
cry in public," and she was different,
longer hair, cheeks red, puffed
with anger but she was the same
sugar on her fingerprints
owned and lonely.

She threw ten dollars
in quarters on a table
and went to the car
and slammed the door
and screamed like a slaughterhouse pig
and he buttoned his shirt
and straightened his tie
and put five dollar bills down.

He smiled, crooked smile
crooked teeth crooked tie
no matter how much he
tightened, straightened it.

No comments: