by Charlton Metcalf

on a bench in front of the Giant Wash,
waiting on my ride
looking down at my feet,
and the black gumspots on the sidewalk
in a summer slump

noticing just sitting down next to me,
like a thug murder,
whew’
Dude has an odor!!!

looking over mugged
my head sinking a little too much,
in the forensics deadweight malt liquor gumbo
his hair greasy, leaded gasoline
last job embargo ‘73
thrift store lord Byron,
with found ruby pinky ring super powers
rocking to the beat of that “convoy” song
coming out of the 8 transistor Jackson 5 radio
flipping in his overpass rodeo hands
starting to mumble Pollock jokes in pig Latin,
with a free beer smile
dreams, out flying meat kites with the ritalin kids,
giving them bullneck low-hugs,
with a mothers love
recent memories, lost dog flyers,
with secret knowledge of the census

sun beating down now ghetto sub-woofer jungle funky
funk
permeated dumpster juice camphor,
my sweat becoming sticky mush, exoskeleton terra
cotta
my compassion radius,
dependant on the direction of the breeze,
Titanic “king of the world” or vinegar Rasputin eye
bulger
burning the nostrils
choking to myself like a ravaging fruit bat

turning away to the other side,
scuba style
a girl sitting next to me,
like black market girlscout cookies,
thin mint flav
looking straight ahead
cheekbone virgin 69 monologue
mounted butterfly tube-top,
shading her belly button,
now becoming a manhole cover

her grape Nehi gulps, every 30 seconds,
swallowed like a kick in the throat

she prolly thinks it’s me