Not See Again

Long I partied hearty with Hogdoo and weird Harold,
One of the hippies waiting the orbit of the strobing joint,
Talking sidemen on the liner notes of albums
And exotic booby traps of Cambodia and Vietnam,
Until, out of money, I compromised and took a job
Working beside Floyd, a pinkish African-American
With tattoos up his neck and improbably-orange hair.
Meeting, we’d hardly speak, passing the paper slip
We’d consult separately, filling the same order.

Loading boxes on the warehouse’s high shelves,
I thought of the sports-car elect, free those afternoons
To motor past the magnolias and daffodils of Greek row,
And assistant professors cooing toward whispering trysts
In borrowed efficiencies, and desperate women
Shimmying onto the mirrored stage of the Pussycat
To bare and jiggle their breasts for crystal meth.
But, also, oddly, each day I grew more attached
To the unspoken etiquettes of that work;