F.X. James
barroom blah
flickering lines of neon
sagging on a squeaking stool
fourth beer warming
white suds upon a pond
of healthy piss
a cackle to my right
armchair jocks
living thru a weekend tube
a darkened shape
snoring in a booth
the waitress struts on sticks
of loosened flesh
(but back in the day . . .)
she leans across my shoulder
wiping the wood
with a dead man's cloth
"need another, sweetie?"
I don't but I do
and she smiles
for her easiest tip
I sit with thoughts
of deep caves
gnarled stalactites
and the cold press of bone
under a drop cloth of age
color be gone
white white white
the crystalline scars of ice
not a breath to thaw the hold
every winter limb dead
and dressed in virgin garbs
dark gray veins along the road
the bleached canvas above
abandoned by the painter's hand
and still it falls
over and over
down and down
the relentless
colorless cold
holding us all
in uncarved tombs
where we wait and
recall the blues and greens
the lover's touch
of spring
