To My Bald(ing) Spot
Receding there, where
once such bloom. Ball-
erina, starving martyr
envying artists: is this
what thinner is? Sun,
keep me honest—
always keep my cue
ball polished. Make me
promise to forever
march to the beat
of my retreating heart
so that at last, when
I sit down, you catch
your eye on my skull’s
pale pool. Do you
see you? Deem this
has there ever been
such a euphemism?
Breakfast (Sudafed) in Bed
Saturday. Beer garden, Manhattan.
The clientele are beautiful, insipidly
so. A model in a pseudo-retro parka
plucks a cig from her purse, glances
north. I think we make eyes, but I’m
not sure; my mind tries hi, yet as
we pass, all my words turn into wind
and where there’s wind I cannot speak.
She waves past me, where there’s this guy
who looks like me (and yet he has these
brilliant teeth, feathered flesh, chin
a brick and brutish build beneath his shirt).
Is it okay to think bad things? Is it alright
to write them down? I’m dreaming now,
in Kafka-tones, that the mugs they hold
grow arms and legs; carnivorous and brimmed
with teeth—Imagine: one minute, you
are drinking; then the next, you are drunk.
Scott Wordsman holds an MFA from William Paterson University. Recent poems of his appear in THRUSH, Spry, Slipstream, Main Street Rag, and others. He lives in Jersey City, reads for Map Literary, and teaches composition.