Old Spells

The Uber left me down and out

dick in the dirt in the desert while

window panes seared my taste buds,

one point beans bounced in my belly,

bottle pulls of bourbon bumped my bladder.

I had to piss like a race horse,

looking for Ak-Chin’s lawn.

 

I caught a glimpse of her

on the jumbo-tron; riding the rails, stage right,

at the base of the jumbo bong,

shouting along, with her black knee brace,

miss-matched shoelace and plastic gallon water jug.

It couldn’t have been her:

too many oldies covers and not enough hits,

too many kids, bad set lists and overpriced tickets.

No moon. Not enough bass. Bad Magic.

 

When I left I went by her old place.

I forgot that she moved.

I stopped at the same Quick-trip I used to

For the fresh blunts, hoping we’d burn a Dutch,

passing our troubles like a baton,

for old times’ sake. Her new place needed a key

I didn’t have or a code I wasn’t told

and from the bottom story

I could only see the bottom

of thirtieth floor balconies.

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