of a hat oranged
with tropical dust, its rows
of rum bottles like the murk
of an old city. Jumpety table
made of old dark wood
for me to sit at and have
a bottle of Red Stripe.
There's something on the wall
behind me - spread thighs
framing my head, a mural of legs
scissored out so far the torso
attached to them seems broken
or sprung. Ashen patch
of dress, the rest
of the figure absent
or totally dark. A man
comes with dominos, rubs them face down
on the table, and 1 get mine -
my favorite the one with a single
dot, slow black in all the whiteness.
He shows my thumbs how
to
command them
all at once to make a fence. Already he's way ahead
of me, eating my plays
alive, clacking down
his
last domino - all the time moving
back and forth from the game
to his shaved ice concession
across the street -
he sells most of the color
electric blue. 1 lay down
more dominos in a wide field
of split paths. "This one is rest,"
I say, "This one is sleep. Then love."
The man is silent, calm eyes.
He is the game. "Good shot" he says. There's ice
melting on the street: something glistening
into something dark.
