Red Dolls In Heat

From the 4^th to the 5^th

and back on the 10^th.

Moving days like chess

pieces

to accommodate outcomes.

None of them good.

My back against the wall

like so many

red cardinals.

Four days is too short.

Five days is too long.

I suffer the consequences

of snoring,

bad beds,

and hotel doors

slamming

all hours of the night.

How many times I have gone

only to arrive

and learn

I am unneeded,

unwanted.

Perhaps I could survive better

half-filled.

Ears stuffed with the music

of others.

Red dolls

in heat.

Strums of disconnect

in minor.

A fury of beats

drumming out

the voices in my head.

Yes.

It will be a waste.

It is always a waste.

And still,

I go. 

Nervous Kitty

I knew the green tea

was a bad idea.

Like licking wallpaper,

or pulling my eyebrows out

two at a time.

I am too nervous already.
Too ready to jump

like the cat

who sleeps beneath

the shed in my backyard.

But I did it anyway.

I drank it after noon.

I drank it knowing my mother

was going to the hospital

and I was going to have to wait

for my sister’s call.

I have been through this before.

The I.V.’s.

The blood draws.

The X-rays to see

what is wrong.

The two green lights blinking.

My mother confident

she will die if one of them goes off.

Barking dogs.

The sundowning.

The yells and restraints.

The biting of tongues

and arms

and residents.

The shaking of heads,

and endless marveling

at the strength of one

so small.

I am biting my nails now.

Waiting.

Always waiting. 

The Phone Call

It often starts so benign.

The distant acknowledgment.

The casual pleasantries expressed.

The daily chores expounded.

Groceries, and laundry.

and trips to the store.

Talking to her

is like talking to floral wallpaper.

The surface so sweet

you can almost smell the gardenias.

But once peeled back,

the walls expose a toxic glue

on the other side.

The turn,

the change in timbre,

a subtle shift when

all becomes clear.

Gone are the days of laughing and swings.

Racing against one another.

Each one set on out doing the other,

in innocent rivalry.

Now,

there is just one desire-

to pull the other down.

 

Shadow figures

There is a fence

separating

us from them.

A wooden dog-eared fence with slats

allowing

breath and restricted view.

Half-faces,

eyes and hands,

dark bodies,

dismembered.

Abstract paintings of figures

unknown.

Kept out.

Each one never fully understanding

the other.

Shadow figures

running past.

Their voices loud with beer

late into the night.

Our heads

aloft on white pillows

safe asleep

on the other side. 

The Safety of Flesh

I feel sorry for you

wrapped tight

in his arms

fighting to find your way out.

You, who know sorrow

better than the rest of us.

You, who drink tears

without end.

You will never know

what they know.

Feel what they feel.

Arms wrapped tight around you

for love

and only for love.

The safety of flesh.

Voices whispered in your ear

of train rides

and balloons.

A hand to hold

in the night

when the nightmares come

and the trees bang against the windows

begging to come in.

A hand bigger than yours

to wipe away your tears

and leave you

laughing.

Twenty Seven Across

What isn’t there

is the sound of metal on metal.

Coins falling into silver trays,

scooped up into plastic buckets,

and carried down carpeted hallways

like found pirate treasure.

The excitement of counting,

one quarter at a time.

Hands on black handles.

Cheers rising into the air,

then dissipating leaving only the sound

of spinning and clicking.

What isn’t there

is women in sequins and boas.

Men in dinner jackets.

And the illusion of glamour.

What isn’t there

is my father,

standing at the crap table,

throwing hard on the come out,

then soft,

as he tried to “make” his number.

My father saying, “Twenty seven across,”

to the croupier,

then doubling up and up

till he either made a fortune

or they took it all away.

My father,

wearing his lucky red flocked paisley gambling jacket,

the one he was photographed in during

most of my childhood.

My father,

throwing for hours at the table,

thighs chaffed from rubbing together,

surrounded by crowds

who marveled at his fearlessness,

his technique,

his stacks of chips on the table,

growing higher and higher.

My father,

at the black jack table,

a bigger draw than any celebrity filming at the same time

in the same room.

My father,

who for over a decade,

was treated as a kind of royalty in Vegas,

and we, by association,

an extension of that royalty.

The First Family of craps.

Our every move eyed by pit bosses

who knew what we spent.

Knew my father by his first and last name.

Knew everything we wanted,

and gave us everything.

Free hotel rooms.

Free meals at the finest restaurants.

Free buffets. 

Tickets to the hottest shows.

Ringside seats for

Elvis and Diana Ross and The Supremes.

Shows my father would invariably walk out on

after just one song,

leaving my mother to sing, “Hound Dog,”

all by herself,

while he went back to the dice table,

to try his luck

one more time.

My father.

My all-powerful father.

On Sunday,

I was in Vegas again

for a wedding.

I hadn’t been there in over twenty-five years.

Whatever magic Vegas held for me as a kid

disappeared with the removal of the coin slot machines

and my father’s red gambling jacket.

Now, when I walked through the casino,

all I saw was one soulless person after another.

Desperate people and stupid tourists.

Not one of them knew how to play black jack

or how to twenty-seven across,

like he did.

Everything I loved about Vegas is gone.

Now, it’s just one lousy overpriced buffet after another.