Albino
for Malcolm
We shot pool in Springfield,
a blue ruin of a town,
in an upstairs room, stared down
by photos of Masconi, and Fats. Not far
from the crooks and the rich food
at the edge of the miracle half mile.
He's still there, I just know it—
spotting his angles, running the table,
with his honey-blond hair,
ghastly pink eyes, blue tears
at the folds, back-lit by bright signage
racking, breaking, as did we a thousand times.
He'd show at my door around six,
not say a word, with his pig-skinned case,
and momma stitched coat.
I would never turn him down.
I had nothing to do, nowhere to go.
Those were my zero days.
Why think of him now?
Middle-aged like me, probably
sick of things, with a friend or two
on each side of the color line, not far
from the easy money, in that four-flushing
tap-dancin’ ruin of a town.
– steve trebellas