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Send Your Camel to Bed His wallet was full of twenties,
and the sun was loitering
like a drug-buddy looking for a loan.
What people there were, were racked
at the eastern side of the bar,
where the pool tables congregated.
As his songs played out, he’d tilt his head,
as though contemplating Sigmund Freud:
“Midnight at the Oasis,
send your camel to bed,”
but Rodin,
would have seen right through him;
he was no “Thinker.”
Meanwhile, the pool players
continued racking up laughter, telling
tall & taller tales, sinking the hours
into the pockets, one by one,
never bothering to acknowledge him,
except to replace an empty beer bottle,
and provide change, for more songs,
and he liked it that way.
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Perfect Murder
She’d only had a name
a number of weeks;
an unlucky number,
some would later say.
It’d been a difficult birth,
but she’d made it home,
in a Volkswagen Bug;
vintage.
Home to a nursery,
right out of Baby magazine.
And Mommy and Daddy
fed her, and held her,
and closed her door at night.
And in the morning she was dead.
Anguished faces like melting wax,
voices crying “SIDS, SIDS, SIDS,”
and all the while
Dahmer
the cat,
purred.
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