First Beer

Someone's parents were gone
so some older kids up the street were having a party.
We tried, probably unconvincingly, to act casual
when our host uttered the holy incantation:
“Hey y’all, there’s still some beer over there in that cooler.”
The labels, soggy from the melting ice,
were sliding off the slick, brown glass
as we twisted off the caps
and delicate wisps of white vapor uncurled
into the hot August night
and lingered, just for a split second,
like tiny booze genies,
ambassadors from the adult world
welcoming us into the fold.

His Passing

It was quiet.
The family was there
at the hospital.
He was calm.
He just sighed and took one last look around the room,
the way you might at a restaurant
when you’re paying the bill
and at the same time wondering if what you ordered
was what you really wanted.

The Snore

The deep, slow snore
creeks and sputters
out of those flaring, glistening black nostrils
carrying with it
the weary longing
and sweet, oaky satisfaction
that has been fermenting in the chests of dogs
for thousands
of years,
unchanged since the first days of their friendship with man
when night would fall
and leave no trace of light in the valley
save the last embers of a few cooking fires
and the eyes that would spring open
at the snap of the smallest twig.

Betty

None of us realized
that no one had seen her,
it’s just not something you think about
when you're living in a ten-story anthill in New York.
A lot of paths crossed there
but there was no pattern to interrupt.
And even if there had been one,
most of us would have missed it.

The first day,
it must have been Aaron cooking something weird again,
as wildly experimental vegetarians are wont to do.
The second day,
the dogs were beginning to claw at the baseboards,
and it must have been someone’s garbage
or rats
or both.
But the third day,
it had taken on a life of its own;
a complex bouquet of fermented shit,
old flowers, and sour milk.
The dogs started whining early that Saturday morning,
as the building’s newest tenant demanded to be acknowledged
and we realized that no one had seen Betty since Wednesday.

Mr. Crespo, the Super, optimistically offered the formality of knocking
before walking in to find her
in her armchair, TV blaring,
an unfinished beer still on her snack tray.
Her skin was mottled and green-black.
and her arms were raised up high,
like a referee signalling a touchdown.

Birthday

Running through a Stepford subdivision
I pass a birthday party for some kid, looks like two or three years old.
Just a few family members out in the yard
with sun and balloons and cake
and party cups with Pixar characters.
The kid's on a shiny red plastic tricycle
but it's one of those special ones with a long handle on the back
so grown ups can keep him safe.
He goes down a mole hill, peddling furiously
while dad secretly steers.
I pass by again twenty minutes later
and the party's over.
The tricycle is still in the yard
but everyone's inside
except mom and dad.
They're in the driveway.
She stares daggers at him
from those tired former-prom-queen eyes
and all I hear him say, exhaustedly, is
"Fine"
as he tosses the cigarette butt from his plump, hairy fingers,
gets into his shiny red Corvette
and roars out of the driveway.