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.