Stop Me If

He won’t describe the Chevy in the culvert,OE cans rebounding off shale chips, sirens.

The beagle drops his sign—TALKING DOG FOR SALE—and sits, and only says, My partner’s in lockup.

The priest, rabbi and minister are taking sacramentfor seasickness. Slurring, they drizzle myrrh

and cassia oils on a foot-tall man who weepsover his Steinway: A spit bubble, a waft

of Tiger Balm and Scotch. Why the same Billy Joelsongs every night? Where are all the torch singers?

Fourteen congressmen, burnt out on screwinglight bulbs in, traded their ladder for guayaberas.

Now they blow luck into their fists, toss snake eyeafter snake eye. The dog sniffs the air of soured Coors

and pool chalk. He says the empty rye bottles onthe bottom shelf remind him of the joke about the guy

who chained himself to a reef to more securely watchthe ocean but realized too late the routine of surf

would bore him open, grind his spleen and liver intobeach glass. The beagle whines the whine of wanting out,

remembers the chase: the smell of sweaty rubberfrom grass to patio, the sweet risk of cuspids in a Nike sole.

He paws the sign: My buddy did the punchlines,so I’m half-price. I tug my eye-patch, spin

the steering wheel idling in my pants, pour two shots.I laugh an echo of a laugh. Outside, the curb chuckles

with red and blue lights, but just to be polite;it’s heard this joke so many times before.