Tropicana

Balls of breath ellipsed out lava lamp-like,
a cotton spun of Coors beers, Marlboro Lights
that pressed into the window, then stuck.
“Las Vegas is a lonely star,” Mitch slurred.
Get away from the window! Or maybe
I should just shove him out! I swear
everybody over 50 is husband and wife,
in anxious intimacy from getting pounded on
all these years, like I saw you in the hospital
and brought you a bed pan once, and you
had to tell me I was drooling on an airplane.
We know all this, but it gets worse:
there’s no point in talking about it!
Einstein didn’t invent enough time
for us to help each other at the end!
Mitch has a grainy moon face right now,
hard grey, cratered, darkening beard.
But the failed eyes are too much. I wish
we could put eyes in a jar overnight, or
I could just get ahold of his and put them
in a cabinet. “Why should I give the projections
tomorrow? They’re just going to can me!”
Like I care! But, the fucks made us share
a room to save money, and now he’s mental.
They don’t pay me enough to watch a man cry.
My luck to be there every time someone gives up.
Or are people just giving up all over the place?
Some guys don’t die. They melt back to plasma.
“Mitch, I’m turning off the light. Watch TV
for as long as you want. I’m not your Annie.”
(Russ, you fat bastard, I’m pissed at you, too.
Where’s that Super Bowl bet? I’m putting you
in every poem until you pay up, you jerk.)


lostdogreward@yahoo.com
Poetry, Poet, Poem by Clem