He leans frowning like a tuned-out janitorsteam cleaning the Jersey shore,beer can, beer can, door hinge, hardly Caesar’sgladius or filigree from the lostlast Incan temple. He doesn’t care,eyes us with suspicion as we point and shoutuntil off come his headphones.Your ring’s gone in the hissing sandand like the dying we have a surplusof expedient faith, at which he shrugs,claims he once tugged up the keyto a BMW, still looking for the car.But a rust-fuzzed wind-up clock,a Caribou Lounge tin coaster surrenderonly worthless mystery compared to himletting you hold the prophet’s staffas he guides it across his back. It beepsand you laugh like anyone surprisedby their own misunderstood power.I shouldn’t envy him a few twisted piecesof Iraq though later as my hands sweepyour body in the dark I fight the urgeto…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2020