Song & Dance
Man
Now he’s hunched with the rest
over lunch of nuked soup in this
clattery cafeteria, cheek bones
honed to a whore’s whisper,
the sad map face folded in thirds
and each third saggy as shit but
back when he was hitting on those
summer circuit waitresses he had
real teeth and a tune to polish
every minute of the night so
of course she made him sing it
right at her and yes he made her
howl when he left, all slouchy
cigarette with no paunch then
and plenty punch, brassy jazz
on three martinis when he’d drop
to one knee, spread arms wide enough
to take in everything and all its loser
history and belt one out to make you
see how raggedy and right he loved
his smiley bad self.
(from Toy Firing Squad)
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