although the scratches on the record

add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,

i don’t believe the boy at the counter

gave me correct change.

the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress

across the street, but the gangrene on my leg

cannot be hid by pheromones alone.

the stench is likened to war.

but that is not the fact.

the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz

when it was good, the bad leg was bad

from the beginning.

the root, the marrow, the veins,

the sinews all of it; rotten

all over. i wear pearls and smile

at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.

Buddy Clark in my head,

i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre

merely to see Bogey again

on Los Angeles Street before

the nuclear heat pushes me down