The night comes on like a train
inhaling the whole cigarette. Even the curtains
suck and blow
in memory of motion. The devil
isn’t at the crossroads,
he’s at the end of the bed.
His hat hangs from the vanity,
a jaunty bird, do-weet, do. This
could be Montreal, Quebec or Fulton, Mississippi
or a seedy joint above the Brothers’ Cafe
or anywhere, nowhere.
His fingers flutter and spark, cup
and caress a flash of silver muted and bang.
He tells me it’s all about the suck and blow
when he speaks words.
My knees fall apart slightly
in memory of motion
listening for the whole rest
that rolls like a ready egg
across the coverlet. The devil
on my bed, the cigarette in the can,
the train whistle, the suck,
the blow, the flutter and spark.