Sing Sing

He no longer orders Singapore Slings
to suck on the maraschino cherry
while he scans the most alluring

derivative futures like the funnies
Nick used to laugh at each time he crowed
he made so much fuckin' money.

After three hours of diarrhea
he'd wipe his ass with chapter and verse
ripped from the good book, yessiree;

instead in the dark on his upper bunk
he listens to lights out talk for some dirty
talk with whores leaning into parked cars.

Nick remembers their come hither hems
and smiles like one when Mighty Joe grins,
for Nick, no longer rooster, is hen
on a metal bed. Ping. Ping.