Contemplation

There’s this place I know,
straight down from Shitsville, and to the West .
It’s a broilin’ sleez pit,
run by Rocco.

Rocco’s a greasy haired Italian,
or Spaniard, or Greek.
I never asked, cuz I only saw him a few times.

A few jobs.
A few crooked ladders.

Rocco has a gumball machine,
and I swear to God,
it’s rigged.

It swallows quarters like a Manhattan bank,
chugs nickles like an IRS book man.

All I wanted was a gumball,
like Rocco.
A few more Roccos,
and it would be bye bye broken hearts.

Slimy, greasy gumball,
at the bottom of the barrel.
Someone else wanted him too,
bad.

I was the medium.
All I got was grindin’ bones.

Friction. The burn.

I had a cellmate,
he told me to go straight,
and I said, how ?

Rust and marigolds,
gravel and blue sky.

I sit on a bench,
in front of still water,
and remember.

Before gag rules,
before the mules,
before all that.

I had hair,
golden tufts
that buffeted softly,
in sweet breezes.

I had a smooth,
straight nose,
and all my teeth.

My fingers could feel
both hot and cold.

I was less a few bullets,
and plus a few pounds.

The air was free,
and that’s all I had,
but I played.

I danced with a pony’s head,
on a stick,
and made gun smoke
like the Lone Ranger.

Retroactive karma.
Kids ain’t innocent,
If you take the long view.

I grew.
I did a perfect three-point-turn,
and cooked a mean omelette
when I had the time and
the chickens were generous.

Old.

Now I smile with two missing front teeth,
waitin’ for the tooth fairy.
Waitin’ for socks from Santa.

I look down,
between my feet,
and see the ants.

Milling.
Slaving.
Dying.

It wasn’t an easy life,
after all,
and money bore false witness.

I spit,
and watch the ants drink.
Fuck gumballs.

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