The Conjurer

LAST BAR TURN AROUND


In the lounge of the Marina Yacht Club
You would expect to see a man
in crisp pressed khaki slacks
smiling with a whiteness
I can't afford

But in this dirt floor bar on Jeff'son
in front of the amps
stands a man in starched loafers
and a twice-a-week tan
snapping his fingers
to the beat
of my drumstick
he's paid for the blues
so I give him mine

As I squint my eyes thin
press them tight
between the plates of cymbals
where I keep
forged Medi-Cal scrips
my mother's blue lips
and the hiss
of rationed oxygen.