Palm tree bark against the back, sittin’ lawn chairless in the front yard, house all stucco. Copper chalice of cool drink sweating, and me too, jean shorts and shirtless.
Salarymen drive past, back home, afraid their scold wives are well seduced.
Mines got mouth like a sailor and ashkenazi knockers, so I’m generous, let em keep theirs.
Retired to the tropics, still, we took with us the whiskey from home, warm our gullets, Swim in sunny heat, in stars if the air’s still blazing, dry off, head
to bonfires of friends, All aging, balding, all followers of gurus to retreats, and swingers, but we don’t buy any of it, me and her, we’re stupid, sentimental, believe in love and only a couple other things.
…
Won all the dough in Vegas, means questionable, married in Graceland Chapel
And ran off, moved our mothers out here, where the coconuts grow and the sea mists land,
To finest of trailer homes not far from the house, on Saturday’s we have a beer with mine,
On Sundays we go to church with hers, to make up for their men having died, our fathers.
In the light of everymorning we wake late, my darling sifts the side garden,
I grill meats, fighting the urge to stare right at the sun, I think of bullfights, detectives.
She thinks of flowers.
…
A few mornings from now they’ll pull into our driveway in unmarked cars and sunglasses
For what we’ve done, the money we took, the identities we stole, we’ll look pretty
On the cover of the Hawaii Tribune, having blown each other’s brains out on the porch
Before the agents could reach the house to take us in, though no hardships will be had,
Because finally there was plenty, and from times plentiful, we go out smiling.
Drinks with little umbrellas in our hands.
Jacob Madkour is a writer living in Boston. He has yet to have any other work published.
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