Headed To The Compound by David Spicer

I drove from Mexico in a ratty VW
with Cement, a roustabout who
wore a white shirt. We debated
visiting his punk brother Silver Dollar
on death row. Instead, we gobbled fish,
French fries, and apple pies at McDonald’s,
speaking Portuguese with an obese burger
flopper. BANG! BANG! from a firearm.
Riddle veterans, we questioned the shots.
Nico, a ballerina with a mail-order accent,
asked us for a ride. Calves slender and taut,
her beauty dazzled our male hormones,
and the Winchester justified her presence.
Cement and I treated her with Yes ma’ams,
No ma’ams. In the car headed to the compound,
Nico recited surreal poetry from her mimeographed
book, Muffle the Orifice and Shift Measure,
that predicted we’d soon binge on Moon Pies,
ban pantyhose, and creep on canes
in the last days. Houses smiled, then burned
in the poems. We carried on, collected slide
rules, smells of lies about the future. She gave us
a video about a gun-toting teenage ballerina.
In the movie she threatened in tour en l’airs
with a rifle. Cement and I congratulated
ourselves for giving Nico a ride.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

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