glory box and a hit of the cure

in a nice gated apartment complex.

the lights blink out one

at a time in the space

of five minutes. the ghost of chinaski

sits at a window dreaming of bmws

  the track and the typewriter's clack

 screws his misty

face up against the screen

square acne blooms through it

silent-- like those goddam

ipads or pods  or whatever they use

now  wants

a bottle of shiraz

to quench the earthquake

tearing him apart but there

was never enough

even when he had a gut

and how oh yeah he notices

in the mirror that isn't him at all

peeking like a bashful schoolgirl at

the divided joy that looks back at him thinks Oh

yeah I forgot I'm Black.