franklin the dick


living as franklin, those inappropriate whistles
single breasted coat and plaid attitude
had paid a fat tip to a cocktail waitress with glistening thighs under sequins
brushed the lint off of his shoulder to the constellation of cigar embers
the dark corner nearby lighting books of matches

and franklin corrected his pants while sat
the pleats of them overwashed and folded bar napkins
his foot shuffling to the light entertainment, the golden heart of some niggar
singing on the black stage
the gravel having rattled across the silver tongue
her vomit of burdens under dull pink discriminations

a suitcase to his side, barely clasped open
with a temperance as thin as his socks
eyes dark and shiny as his shoes
franklin himself loosened both cufflinks
while the darkness went well with bourbon
hair receding but the dick is still there
at that table and watching that show