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The Pragmatist
by Linda FullerJesse sleeps upstairs
from where downed bikers
brood over chipped cups
of coffee and coke.
The jukebox beats Claire’s ears and
plucks her loins while she delivers
full ones and picks up empties.
Chains and studs sparkle in oxygen
drifting through smoke-dark
threat of sex and mayhem.
Claire plays cards and danger
hangs with the smoke rising
through the cracks to Jesse’s room
where Jesse puddles unconscious.
He’s a blot on his quilt
as Raymond punches his gut
like a man trying to get his candy
or his money back.
Jesse’s a one-armed bandit
paying off in bile.
Jesse’s a whale coughing up
a slimy sea and red gel cap boats.
Claire stands in the hall sucking
a strand of hair and watches Raymond
scoop up and swallow undissolved capsules
from Jesse’s briny chest hairs.
Raymond is a safe harbor
with a skull earring;
he’s a Seconal marina
with an intestinal berth.
Claire crawls up inside her head and plays
social worker or debutante or just small
and invisible and wishes she could get
her drugs free too.
05/23/2010 Posted on 05/23/2010
Copyright © 2024 Linda Fuller
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