He’s old
and he sits on a plastic white
garden chair, at the end of your street.
You’ll see him with a cigarette,
most hours. But the man has
no legs.

Half-limbed, semi-skimmed,
his stumps raise red as he stubs
his cigarette. And you wonder
why he chooses the flames to his
lips, the power to turn the tables
lights to his fingers.
He holds on longer than he has to.

A man puts Anna
On the jukebox:
Complains his straw
Is limp.

A kiss under the
Mistletoe of my cherry skirt,
May I? You flirt
A tiny tip is going to hurt.

Too poor, these wings
Are raw
Where is the water
I asked you for?