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a poem by Jason L. Huskey

We Pay In Dollar Coins

Marvin sits at the bar
thinking about drinking again,
about the unmoved telephone,
how her ring ain't sang in weeks.

He touches the counter
like a low stack checking the hands.
Pair, pair, nothing, flush, how her cheeks
flared the last night they kissed.

She's in the blips of cedar box celluloid,
hands folded about the hollow breasts
that followed the harvest moon down.
He's at the bar thinking about drinking again,

calloused hands shining up Sacagaweas,
eyes captive to the colored labels of his youth.
His liver's out on display at the hospital,
stuffed like someone's dead kitty cat ready to purr.

Some nights he wishes his body would reject hers,
let them snuggle in the soil without sigh --
set him along just south of the suggested gates
and find her pretty upon a cloud in time.

© by Jason L. Huskey
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #20 ~ March 2012