Goody sucks down a Yoo Hoo
His soul long gone to heroin
Crow looks out at MacDougal Street
Doesn’t see winter giving way to Spring
Tucker discards the queen of hearts
His left shoulder twitches
Gazoot runs his hand across the green felt
The pool table lies silent
Itch checks the racing form
He knows he’ll lose again
Sinatra bellows from a radio
perched on a dusty shelf
On the Street of Dreams
Donald knows it’s all here
Well, isn’t it?
Plato’s Cave, 1954
Skidding Stones On Long Island Sound
We stood, slightly bent at the waist,
Whipping our right arms sideways
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
My brother and me
Late October ’54
Warm sun
Chilled breeze
We didn’t talk past
It was too painful
We didn’t talk future
There was none
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
The stones list in the gulp of the sound
Three, four, five, six, seven skids
We couldn’t reach Connecticut this day, we giggled
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
We didn’t talk past
It was too painful
We didn’t talk future
There was none
We talked an early Wynn
Dusty Rhoades
The Giant Sweep
Cleveland, Willy Mays, Vic Wertz
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
My brother is gone now
The last time we talked, we talked fortunate
We talked loving wives, kids, family
We talked past and future
We talked chilled breeze, warm sun
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
