Michael D. Amitin’s most recent poem to appear here was “Holy Candle Blues” (March 2018).

The Waiter
By Michael D. Amitin

six friends to carry your box

and coffins don’t have pockets

Tired of practicing my funeral
multitudes congregating at the “Fat Lady Sings” Mortuary
eulogies shaking catacomb dust
tears relinquishing their posts

I stumble out to Weary Street a plaid werewolf
loose as change in a storm
toss my hat through the frightful ring of day.

American feet of starry night clay
toeing cobblestone rain
recalling youth’s misty planks
cigarette winds harsh on my bony flanks,
sweet coat of fastened lapels.

Eyes worn wrestling with doubt
hooked fishwives shout,
praying for vision in
stripped mangers of heaven.

Tugging lightly this coat, the wind no match for a frosted soul
darkness holding the eternal magnet between her savory
slit throat legs.

Sundown eyes, I await the dust road prophet to rise
twirl his cig-lit candy cane

instead, batting off campfire sparks
fireflies too hot for memory to part
lodged in a charred sirloin heart
butchers waltz in the
six-tier cake, serrated bloody-blade parade
Speared like fragile sheets
of ghost sneeze rain
we loved, and
showered in the cold dutiful day.

Driftwood bobbing in the black vulture sky
sailing god’s last chance miracle, I arrive at the.

Radiant stars in the dark bar
lit like a carnival in obsequious shades
Spanish beauty thick raven hair
a nightfall of water
not a drop to waste . . . or spare.

Chaplin’s “Waiter”
16mm on the faux brick wall,
in rides Bronco Billy,
French pigeon table mumbles
pull up a stool and smile.

Goodbye trains leaving with
each sip of Bourgogne
carnival sun lighting abandoned chaparral eyes

Reverie, and . . .
closing time
young and foolhardy, raven hair lady
hands me a lollipop as if I’m four
long forgotten what I came in for.