Kicked Up In April

The cocktail waitress smoked a menthol cigarette,

saying it cleared out the snot and crap from her head,

left her sinuses dry as a bone, as pollen kicked up in April.

Out in the back of the restaurant, five minutes for a smoke,

before she went back to smiling for ogling men, fake flirtation,

and being a pretty dream for hopefully big tips.

I was smoking too, as night fell, and the hot afternoon faded.

I was in love with her, and was glad to be alone with her,

away from the sweltering, stifling, and noisy kitchen.

We looked up at the sky, a barren and cold and unbroken black,

with two, maybe three weak and blown out stars, and no moon.

So little in the banal lights of the city to dream upon.

Then a bright, bright red light streaked across that flat black,

zigged up and zagged down and made impossible moves,

leaving an open cut on the sky that bled for a few seconds, then faded.

Then it streaked off, gone forever.

The cocktail waitress stubbed her cigarette on the wall, sighed out her smoke,

Aliens, she said, their watching us, manipulating us, cross breeding us,

and we sold ourselves out for not even thirty pieces of silver, just some toys,

She goes inside, to smile and perform, and I’m alone in the cooling night.

This not our world, not even the world of the powerful, but the demonic hands they kiss.

The weight of that black sky that held only fallen angels was unbearable.

I too, went inside.

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