Sunday Night Poetry

FOR ROY, WHO KNOWS THIS FEELING AIN’T RIGHT

Let's talk about heartache, Roy,
while the hurrying wind blows against the sign
with the missing R. Let’s stand outside of ‘ite-Aid,
smoking, waiting for the friend who'll drive us

out to where the blackgum trees fade
from the road. A radio’s playing the clown,
you cry for a pretty woman,
mine's a tattooed boy.

Roy, how do we tell each other of the amplified
nights, planes leaving the dusty fields of Texas.
Nothing here but nickels and dimes,
the all-day sleep of nowhere.

Look at this jacket, flung over the chair,
the emptied closet, the open door.
All night I dance alone in a room
of lit amber lamps, ashtrays, warm beer.

Roy, the shades are up. Neighbors look in,
see my arms moving in the air.

                                   --SK