ISSUE: Fall 2014
Leroy, wisdom in a chuckle,
Gold chains drape around his neck—
High yellow on high yellow—
He broadcasts, I’ve been young, but you’ve never
Been old. “Mid City,” like his claims,
Stitched bold across his cap.
Hard Uncles—cool cats who can Billy Preston
In patent leather. Nothing from nothing
Is their way, something they’ve taught their
Manicured hands—how to be quick-witted and quick to grab.
Ron’s, Tennessee Totty, all ass and no body.
Bones on a table, fast as a fish fry, fast
As gambling two weeks of wages away.
Mike on the phone from Vegas and Gary
In the back—Roll another one, Freddie B.
Smoke and booze hold hands,
Swing from the ceiling and
Into everyone’s eyes.
If you ain’t ready to lose, don’t bring
Your cissy butt down here,
Tee “The Shoe Doctor” blurts out,
A notice for all pacemakers
And the faint of funds.
How the heart stops
When money is lost in a heap.
How the heads of proud men swell
Or retract, puff or crumble.
John Paul whispers in my ear, anything
Better than sex and watermelon,
Leave it alone, his finger extending
Toward someone in the corner holding
A bowl full of empty luck—
A wallet full of poor decisions.
It’s nearly 1 A.M.
At this point, excuses are more eager
Than the pot. Leroy gets some
Shoe polish from the closet and blots his lie.
Honey, that damn car broke down again,
He rehearses, laughter barreling into a cab.
His drunken squint and wink—
His two-fingered blessing
Shakes the fog away.
He’s been down this road
Before— home the hard way,
And a joker up his sleeve.
