Poem for an American Barbeque
Waiting on the patio not
the Tim-Roth-shot-in-the-gut scene
clutching blood in the back seat begging
Harvey Keitel to drop me at the hospital.
Drop me at the hospital!
I won't tell anyone who shot me!
I continue not smoking while cars
on the highway between my house and the river
chase each other with gunfire and curses.
The moon rises in the blue sky
and flips me its swiss cheese middle finger.
My friend arrives.
The beer is warm.
Who built this patio? Who built this garage?
I can't answer these questions.
He's visiting a struggling man.
When I turn on the ballgame
he thinks it's an evasion.
Let's crack beers. Spark it up.
We've got steaks and the salad I've made
might make us feel like healthy men.