The Holy Ghost at the Car Wash

The one place no one ever thinks

to sit back and enjoy a smoke

is at the car wash. They can’t

stop you from lighting up

in your own car, right? So I spent

three months going through

every car wash in town. Timed

them to see which was the longest,

since I smoke hundreds.

So there I was at the entrance

of Godfather’s Auto Spa and Pizzeria

out on 303 to start off another month

of unlimited washes. Put

the car in neutral, jacked

the seat back three notches,

fired up a Maverick, watched

the light show behind the soap

through a tar and nicotine haze.

Brando gravelling “Look what

they’ve done to my boy” as red,

green, and blue lights seem like

they’re going to form patters

any second now, but never do.

I waited, every time, for the tommy

guns to open up, the cases

of bathtub gin in the trunk to get

riddled with holes. But nothing

that interesting ever happens

in LaGrange, Ohio, where it makes

the papers when I order my pie

with sliced green olives. I guess

Brando and I have an understanding.

He’s never bummed a smoke.

Inner Female

A toad has taken residence

in the opening where your lower

intestine meets air. He searches,

perhaps, for snugness,

for warmth. No matter, he adds

little to the total dimensions

of your carry-on baggage.

Dinner tonight, as often, one

of the local bovine. The farmer

will come to you tomorrow,

village priestess, beseech you

to rid the area of its vampiric

pest, unaware of the detachment

of both innards and mind

when the moon is at its zenith

and the bloodthirst can be borne

no longer.

A cow is enough only in the sense

of satiety. Never of pleasure. Bent low

like the peasant who rifles

through the scraps, you drink

your fill, remember the all-too-

rare nights of lips moist with the life

of a creature you’d shared

conversation with moments before.

The lights of the village beckon,

pulse behind your eyes in the rhythm

of your heartbeat. You take your

sustenance, stare all the while,

listen to the toad burble the call

of a thousand generations of ancestors.

Nine of Swords

Caught a glimpse 

over my shoulder

of the thin man as I got

into the car

he had an unfiltered

Camel on his lip

like he always does

on the side

of the road

as certain as milktoast

there could be

a flash flood

or three feet of blizzard

in the desert

he’d still be there

dirty white T-shirt

ragged jeans

cherry on that smoke

just about to fall

but never does

and you’ll drive

another sixty, seventy miles

alone on the road

and there he’ll be again

in a halo of shattered glass,

desiccated roadkill,

debunked philosophies

with a pile of butts

at his feet

so big he had to have

stood there a week