He’s a
shitty video,
bad zine,
faded heavy knit,
square bottomed
necktie
of a man.
He is a
wrong turn onto
a short dock and
an unwillingness to
brake before he goes off
the end into water
too shallow to allow a
dramatic, tragic
denouement.
He is a
bankroll fat with
singles and
not even a twenty
on top to
cover.
He’s a pool shark
with a warped stick,
big talk small walk,
too quick to back off
when rocked back by
one well-chalked bank shot —
no game for the long haul,
no words for the laugh
from the watchers lounging
against the far wall —
you know the type
and you know how they all
fall, after a while. Later
we’ll make jokes about him
but while he’s here
you steam and stew and
think about how sweet a single
slap behind his neck
might be, even though you know
that’s not worth all the trouble
likely to come from
all that whining
and tattle tale talk
afterward.
