First published in
Raritan

A Picked Pocket, a Broken Leg.

Under midday sun, an eel hunter held none
but a noose of shoelace and camphor vine—
a lasso to snare the fishmonger’s fleeting trade.

The weather report called for continued tumbleweed.
Every trailer park viceroy ate veal three times a week.
In the shoals, shells harvested heat like cigarette dishes

and cigarette dishes, once filled, were always smashed.
Ash was everywhere: found on forehead, lap, and lip;
the famed city’s impeccable walls awash in palm prints.

In the opera house, the lustful dungarees
of Tyrolean dicemen filled the foyer, ready to topple
the baccarat tables with thirteen of the hangman’s

best rope tricks. The lone briefcase emblazoned
with a bull’s-eye marked an imminent billowing above
the orchestra pit. With the red hand of horror raised,

warning was quickly given. The fire brigade arrived early
to the scene and had to wait. “Why deny the inevitable?”
said the lieutenant, tapping a box of matches against his good ear.

“No,” answered the captain. “Then we’d be no better
than the fire. That’s a horrible state to place yourself in—
a world full of people and no one ungloved to touch you.”

So they stood back—mostly patient, though some paced—
as night unfolded its seersucker pleats upon them.
And the fire that was promised was the fire soon had.