Kathleen Hellen

Headlights on the Bottom-Feeders

​

Salt-spit in September’s fin

The old man polishing the bar is

 

hemingwaying little wisdoms, like, you sure can pick ‘em

 

For now, at least, I’ve got a yuengling

compliments of him who’s dropping low balls with his stick   

 

he’s got a she-boat in the slip he wants to take me out in    until

 

the tide brings you in, toothpick swiveling in your grin. Tall drink—

though I know you can’t swim

 

You’re weathered grey on splintered stilts. A blind fish squirming

The exit ramp that ends another month with “r”

​
 

They Remembered the Nightgown I Wore

​

Under the nebula of streetlights

my eyes returned the men

I thought might save me

 

pacing the summer arcade—men

who warned off life’s interrogations—men

the height

 

to all my stepped

decelerations—men

 

                                    who called my name

Priests of ambush—men

 

the ten to every six

every seven—men

 

vaguely human

I never caught a ride going anywhere I wanted