Another Time, Place

The Old House,
Joe smooths himself out
upon a smooth cotton laze
just to pillow-bide his time
out the dormer-screen.
Glenwood Ave.
Rain-slicked and hush-zipped
by the last summer trolley blinking by.

“Did you see,” Mac is unwrapping
an unwelcome thought, “the way Harding
took it through the helmut? It spun around
and spat out, right in his messkit,
‘ping’, like a tooth.
And old Harding, he just sits and stares,
Like he’s thinking ‘bout where he put his spoon.”

“I saw,” says Joe
giving again his gaze to the glimmering embers
and the still smoldering stalks
of bamboo.