Andy Roberts
Plasma
Always looking for a new place to be born,
escape from the smell of blood and flies,
Ray Bob, Joe Jack and I, met at the blood bank.
Sticky weather, quiet as a snail.
Watching the red rag of a dog’s tongue
across the street, waiting for the door to open.
Ray Bob never shows his teeth when he laughs.
Joe Jack rat-a-tats like a machine gun
over razor wire.
God went to sleep and we got born
wrong, half baked and broken.
The door opens.
On tv, in the lobby,
the Life of Evel Knievel
with the sound off.
Ray Bob goes first, comes out rubbing.
Then Joe Jack, who mumbles something
about mysterious man made workings.
We cross over to the liquor store,
next to Cuatro’s Dentistry,
Teeth In A Day, Done The Right Way.
Then to our separate corners.
I hope it won’t rain again.
The sky hangs like a judge.
Ray Bob can walk on his hands,
holds his sign in his teeth,
a small box of stars.
Joe Jack lost his marbles
at the Ohio State Fair,
started screaming on the Sky Liner.
I’m partial to gin in the morning,
sleep off the afternoon. Up all night
arguing with the dead, who won’t let me in.
Other work by Andy Roberts