THE ALTERNATIVE

The boy was confident though
his bowels coughed pitter-pat.

This was not a sign of his
middle-age: hands shaking, voice

shaking, sexing stockinged legs
in the front row. How the

paper trembled and the world
curled into itself, the

potter casting his creation
away. Proof, the other said,

squirming. That bitch gave me the
clap. The boy's middle age

doesn't know what the other
expected. Her first name

ended in a capital
D, after all, like the boy's

middle age will end: alone.
This is better than the

alternative, at any
rate: the times he should have died

outnumber the dollars he
should have in his account, and

for once she says she doesn't
mind it like that. Outnumbered

and outgunned, the boy's middle
age tries to find forgiveness

and fails. It's harder than it
should be, and this, again,

is equal to or less than.

CICADAS

I thought about the three
in the pool and somehow
I keep coming back
to brown shoes and old
age. I was there, and

I did see it, and
who ever said that nature
is silent? She asked me
to write her a poem
and I did. It's funny

because I don't think
they're actually playing.
Hilarity ensues;
cicadas dog-day their
seventeen-year dirt dive.

DEAREST

Dearest:

the password is
affair,

the diamond is
on the dresser,

the only way
to win

is to sing the end
of the world

into existence.

WORKING MAN

You see what I did?
he asks. He's a working
manager and he expects
the same from his
employees. A dollar falls

folded out of my pocket
and lies faded green
against the four-color
carpet. The coffee
tastes like fish.