Frederick had just fallen off 
his barstool that needed repairing.
Bits of foam peek through
the cracked vinyl.  He’ll call to get it fixed
in the morning.  For now he’ll call the floor seat;

looking up at the stucco ceiling,
pieces missing, covered with a different shade
of plaster.  He notices how the walls form
a never ending corner with the ceiling.
He can’t turn.  It’s quiet and cold
on the concrete.  His old lady, Zimbraq is playing
with a box of blue tipped matches,
lighting them off her teeth,
leaving her with sulfur breath.

He stares out the small window
above the bar, through flashes of heat 
and smoke, trying to catch that fragile instant
when a leaf breaks off from the branch
it’s clung to for months;
                                       only seeing
the second it emerges in a spiral to join him.


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