[Wheels of Fortune, Arman, 1995]
The jiggle of juke box blight
fuddles under the curdle
TV, a jingle-fest hung above
a bobble game of balls–
green skin, wood sky, fake shack
You put it to the corner pocket.
A stripe flirts to the hole,
pocking drop that robs the other
poker of the eight-ball win.
I’m a bitsy rodent rolling down
a subcutaneous bole, blackened cool,
mole-happy to be popped
underground (dangling sound still
shredding the ceiling). Lane after
satiny lane, my only home.
This slow decline joggles me
to others bulking
in polo-pelted queues,
bowling and rumbling below a pyrex window.Play us more.
Drop quarters and we’ll run
to the station juggling for position,
smiling for favors. You stare
in and watch us fuss, reach a fond and filthy hand
to fling us up to shacked-up form–
culture in a Petri dish
only to b cracked.