Mark Lamoureux


(For Donald Harrison)

Shooting pool with pottymouthed apostles:
dumbfounded, sharked.    A billion lucky
scratch tickets,                   a hip-flask,
a brand new Buick,            full deck
of cards with girls on the back                          for you
from the kid whose otherwise ungrasped
shoulder you palmed to creep out the yard to swig gin,
toss Jarts.

Grandad,              smile on my hangover,
shield me from dumbfucks,               pissants,
                 the whims of broads & that thirsty dark you bird-flipped,
bullshitted until the laughter hovered
from your shriveled mouth.                              No punchline,
               the last dirty joke:

Poet walks into a bar with a jar of pickles a duck

Now what?        I pulled your finger
& you turned into dust.