bright lights at night
it’s two in the morning
he gets out of his car
like the spoiled food you
pick up out of the dumpster.
they all believed he was
lost in thought on that
cold windy streetcorner
tracing the words in his mind
to say to the valet:
“get me the spot by the potted palms, chico. make it a five”
it was a double crossing to the
people who thought they knew him.
but it’s always a double crossing
just that some people get it worse than others.
so he walks up to his high-rise apartment and
rings for a scotch and sits down and looks a little sad,
like a lost boy (but you don’t feel pity for him).
the boob tube is on but there is nothing to see,
so he digs something out from the archives
it’s the last thing you think he’d watch,
but then again you knew all about it.
he asked her to come over but she was three days late,
she surprised him by showing up asleep in his
bed when he came in a few hours later to turn on the lights.
that’s when he laughed
(he laughs more in this version).
“you’ve had quite a party by yourself, haven’t you?”
(I don’t know what he says to his
friends. I just conjectured that
he’d use witticisms in any situation)
or he says,
“hey you’re pretty banged up”
and she slowly turns over and she has a bed head and says
“sorry” very groggily and he’s never seen her like this before
but he shrugs it off, he doesn’t care.
his speech pattern somewhat mimics that of the
rebel punks from 1960’s teen films,
cheesy, middle America, scripted.
in the neighborhood where he grew in the streets were lined with
deciduous trees and white wood houses.
but that is also a lie.
he was a little boy in a world of buildings and concrete;
nature was just a sideshow.
just get on by smell, like an animal,
yet by the doorframe it was like he was made of
empty words, quiet slowdancing;
and I don’t think he was the same person.
“alright”, he says, “you can stay.
but only so long as you tuck me in, sugar”
Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry