the face on the table
is mine
three in the morning
ritter’s diner
after popping a buck in quarters
in the small tabletop juke
to hear james brown
i just collapsed into the new morning
my lips dirtied with nicotine
beer fogged on formica
steve and calvin
a slur of words above me
charting a course
for tomorrow night
tonight really
shit, there is no more comfortable surface
than this table
though i don’t think
the james brown is playing
i worry about vomiting later
i worry about vomiting now
silly little roman
silly little writer
who hasn’t written a word in months
but will tell you
what a genius he is
if only you’ll pour beer
down his gullet
bloodshot eyes
and suddenly there is light
a swirl of diner
calvin’s hand holding my hair
saying
sorry ski
but the waitress needed a place
to put your food.
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