Noel Sikorski: “Make it like your skin”

The milk falls like bird-shit,
spreading web-like as it hits
the black surface of Sal’s coffee.
“That’s not you, peaches,” he says,
his long gray whiskers jailing
the yellow of his smoking teeth.
In the back office, Laz does blow,
white as the gallon milk
pulling my hand closer
to the paper cup coffee
still too dark.
“How ’bout this?” I ask, pouring,
but the old man is eyeing
the passing Angel,
the waitress with the bod to die for.
“Perfect, sweety, that’s perfect,” he says,
with a corner moving mouth.
Smile harder, Noel,
His eyes shine like poolballs.
each tooth’s another dollar.



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