Face

Bobby didn’t give a shit if he wrote today or tonight,
or at all. He went to Manning’s to call Melindra
to ask her if she would help him bandage his broken face.
She wasn’t home, so he went to the hospital.
Someone asked if he had insurance, he said no and left.
They called after him, the women behind the plate glass.
It was only plastic, he knew, but he wasn’t protected
by insurance, so why give a shit? He went to Aggie’s.
He sat in a booth drinking coffee, looking at the street
to see if anyone he knew passed by. There was no one.
He decided to hitch downtown, he was tired of walking.
He was fucked out, if the truth be known, he told himself.
No one stopped. He walked all the way to the New Congress,
where Rosemary was sleeping in La Iglesia de La Puta.
She was playing bluegrass on his phonograph. Her body
curled into her lap. She’s really very pretty, he thought
to tell her. They went out for a bite, they could sleep
at her place tonight. First, she said, let’s fix that face.
So he looked out at the cars traveling Alaskan Way
while she cleaned and dressed cuts to head off scars.

(16 September 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander