You look as the angle of a bed frame folding to the floor—
that groans and bends, shapes smiled snarls in shined concave bends.
Life warped, covered child hairs stuck on flown balloons;
peering now at armpit goons, with
glass-haunted shades beating off, down under your hood
and you wish your lump mattress could... cool,
be cool, black shoe-top high backs and tube top nametags
littering the room—
bed board hand stands on grease-torn sheets, cum-shot beats. Pooled shampoo tubs,
and crew slugs, bubs knuckling over
lined up boons—like you—whose Diamond Dave dues must be paid
to raise toasts, and dine.
Tell me, is he the rock roller bowler—slave driver—the one lying back,
legs stacked and alleying knacks—
delivered in skin-tight mango sacks?
Lash cashing you, at, near you, in you,
who crouches on gas stool ends,
coaxing shouts and high school letters:
o, the faces people make when they make—
rug rash dresses, draped ivy, on your back... flipped back,
leaping over cans to honeyed sheets: bunched legs and dreams of tomorrow’s kegs.
You’re left lying there now,
noosed to the puddle of muck.
You glitter in your ruddiness, laid upon blanket—though not quite slumbering;
dream no screw snap, hacked at with an axe—no bench, bus seat, nor cushion—look up,
don’t stack, nor fully fold,
rise up, enough is enough and no is nigh—stand—
and crack his frayed