THE WEIGHT OF WORD-SHADOWS
His hands pierce the peanut bowl,
searching for governmental pardons.
The bartender's hands dry faster than the glasses.
Wishing he'd quit calling him "warden."
His hand is stuck in the red glass candle
as a symbol of penance, either past due or outdated,
and the waitress is not sure if she should ask him to move it.
(He keeps calling her "Miss", staring directly into her tits.)
His thoughts are strapped to neon beer signs
which may carry enough voltage to pass himself sentence.
He wonders if bar stools conduct electricity
as well as self-pity and self-conscious urine.
Even in small towns men can find
reasons big enough to fight;
but she will wrap his hand tonight
silent while he wishes against the hopeless, impatient sweat of pain.
He swears to the waitress whose face is a migraine;
"I don't really wish that her cancer would hurry up and take her, I just."
With the knowledge that last rites don't erase last words,
he considers asking the waitress to drive her heel
through his hand, but asks for a pencil instead,
afraid that she'll say no.
D..A..M.
Reading the words of his apology through the hole in his hand,
like an Ouija board predicting phantoms.
N..E..D.
