Autographed urine-colored snapshots of bit-character movie stars
In 50’s pompadours camouflage the walls of Anthony’s pizza parlor.
The fixture couple at their regular booth communicates with animated hand
Gestures; you’ve never been able to put two plus two together & Tony doesn’t sell slices.
You should be committed to keeping pies whole, not half-baked, half-cocked,
Half-hearted, half-truths. Phone numbers of the recently dead exponentially
Multiply in your Rolodex. Hits on the jukebox remain time warped when
Tattoos meant you were a drunk & weeping Nebraska farm boy stationed
In a South Pacific jungle prison. Come home–no one will ever card you again;
Metal bars are starting to appear on ground floor apartment windows in your city.
Riffling medicine cabinets, a Roy G. Biv of pills, like exploding dice, in your sparrow
Nest hands. Swallow two reds, gulp a couple of Robin-egg-blues, slosh ‘em down
With Black Label. Automobile air conditioners have not been invented
Yet so you kick out the passenger side window with scuffed oxford loafers.
Secretly learning Italian, you exchange dollars for lire behind your shades.
It is never a simple conversion; one for one is not necessarily considered equal.
Even the moon’s only half of its former self, as if a partial eclipse proved
The differentiation between being half-asleep or half-awake. Clocks jump
Ahead at 2 a.m. when people are less likely to make a fuss, wrapped up in their
Own nightmares. Divide the pie, but give your lover–always–the bigger half.
Bruce Cohen‘s poems have appeared in various periodicals including The Georgia Review, Ploughshares, Poetry and The Southern Review. He is the author of two books, Disloyal Yo-Yo (Dream Horse Press) and Swerve (Black Lawrence Press).
*Photo courtesy of schmidjon.