Blur from the Red Feather Bar
A vagrant worm, Indian Joe Gans hoists
his head From the strange pillow, prodded by
The buttons on his bloody, rumpled shirt.
A hypnopompic yawn gathers saliva
around the whiskey-dry mouth.
Agog at the odd-looking woman rattling
pots in the distant kitchen, he contemplates
the ramifications of yet another lost night,
another meaningless one night stand, another
deception. "How would you like your eggs Sweetie?"
Progged from his reverie, he replies "Over easy,
real easy Kathy, or is it Marge?"
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