Polish doll

 
she won’t like my strange, ragged canto. she regrets that a poem
makes her cry, except poetry is an instrument of sadness.

so I take her to a seedy divebar. she needs to know where I come from,
& why I keep going back. there’s a story on every cracked vinyl stool;
there is heartache in every shotglass.

the big-souldered Rockola is quiet, too quiet, so I drop in a few coins. she
likes to dance close & slow. me, too. I punch up a sexy blonde singing
‘wake up & make love with me.’ I hold her hand between us & she rests
easy on me, two people with nowhere to go & enough time to get there.

after a couple cocktails, the same old argument starts. I’m rough & she’s
not. I’ve damaged her, but she doesn’t complain. she was prettier before
she fell in with me.

there are other men who can give you a sweeter buzz, I tell her, but
she gets angry. ‘only you,’ she says. & she repeats it, ‘only you,’
till it like to drive me crazy…

what can I give her that I never gave any other dame? nice girls named
Amy, or Michelle. eyes that melt in black liquid sorrow. secret journals
where they write  goodbye, John. you’ll never know I loved you.

I grab a quarter off the bar, tell her I’m going to the ‘stand on the corner
for a Daily News, shoot the breeze with Jimmy, the blind kid. when I get
there, I’ll hop a bus, I suppose. sure, that streetcar named Desire. by the
time it dawns on her that I won’t be back, I’ll be a long way gone.

someone will come along.  a nice guy, maybe.
or any guy  –

someone to pick her up after me…


(Art: Risen Phoenix)