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What’s My Name Again
Crossed fishnets on a barstool.
A half empty coffee cup
wearing pink lipstick.
I could smell the judgment
laced in the morning breath
of whiskey and cigarettes
as it massaged my neck,
the way the gravel driveway sent vibrations
up my spine when I rode shotgun
in my Dad’s pick up.
This man’s name must be Jim,
he wears the Beam as a cologne.
The man’s barstool
cried like a cat
with its tail stuck
in the door as he turned.
I could hear his heart beat
question marks as I imagined
his gaze rolling up my leg
like a tire on an icy road
looking for black ice to avoid.
A twenty on the counter. “Keep the change.”
Through the doors of the diner his gaze still followed.
the crack that is supposed to break
your mother’s back, caught
the cracked heel
and split it in half
like the tuition check
she was supposed to hand me
that one Christmas
when she caught
me in lipstick.
I see a past face looking up at me
as my knees bruise against the pavement.
Scruff is breaking through his plastic
skin tone
and his lips seem to
say-
I am 160 pounds
and 100 of that is paint
faker than the thank you card
Santa leaves next to a half
eaten plate of cookies.
A tear from my face
lands on his right cheek.
The ripples in the puddle blend
his face. Like wet sand
all the cracks are filled in by the waves.
I see my clean face, washing away
the 5 o’clock shadow and Adams apple.
R.K. Gold
Email: R.K. Gold
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