Three Poems

By Alan King

 

At The MGM
after Patricia Smith, Detroit 2007

 

I'm in line for the ATM
behind a woman, who –
earlier, on the casino floor –
was stroking a blue-haired
troll doll for good luck.

 

& I guess it'd be funny
if it stopped there; if she hadn't
kicked & banged the slot
machine next to mine, abandoned
by the goddess of good fortune

 

like my friend Mikey's mom,
throwing what she could at the boy,
chasing him around a house she lost
to a fire from his carelessness.
What if 20 minutes was all it took

 

to lose $800, like the guy
at the craps table – superstition
urging him for fives face up
on each dice    before they're tossed
over the green, felt surface.

 

 

The Sanctuary
for deejays 2-Tone Jones, Underdog, Munch and Stylus

 

all night I’ve struggled to shake
the stiff refusal of joints, legs
weighted by too much light,
not enough wiry torsos on the floor
to drown out my awkwardness

 

things I never used to consider
when all I waited on then was
the right beat before a woman’s
loose limbs were all over me

 

that’s how the holy ghost found me
the first time – beaten by bass
thumping over hardwood floors and
bouncing off exposed-brick walls

 

but tonight, where’s the prayer
for a heathen among those
throwing up praise palms toward
deejays in the God booth 

 

where under blinking strobe
lights everything appears in slow-
motion, almost divine-like

 

a boy grabs his legs in midair,
balancing himself on one arm,
holding the pose before gravity
crumbles the Uprock

 

 

Theory

 

I know I won't get any writing
done when I step into the cafe
and Derrick waves me over,

 

especially after listening to Christine
go on about her girls' assuming guys
who dance well are also good in bed

 

a big wind bullies bright leaves
along deserted Sunday streets

 

I sip hot peach tea on this overcast
afternoon, and consider those – who,
right now – might be testing that theory 

 

Published April 2008