Happy Hour
Marcy lets us play
in her bar
that was once a bank
if we drink
and stay clear
of the sound check.
The room’s
a big black lung.
It’s me,
Alex, slicing limes
in what used to be the safe,
and six or seven guys
I know by face
and paddle grip.
We shove paint sticks
to level that leg,
and hold ourselves
six,
eight feet back.
Penhold, ten.
In my palm
the plastic moon. Up,
little friend.
I ping you
to the corner’s edge,
skinny back
for the return.
I slam it. My arm,
a swan’s neck
with a hard beak. Even I
forget a hit like that
can come
from an arm so thin.
My paddle pulls
Little Moon,
drops it —
like a middle finger hitting middle C,
all the spin still in it,
all the room’s air
inside my skirt.
Babies Cry at 5:03 pm
because the day has gone on so
fucking long. Half-century-old
people cry because the day’s
come to this narrow hall, its line-up
of wire hooks hung with keys half
of which are orphans. Hunger
howls while the sun slices in.
