Two Poems by Vickie Smalls
Meanwhile at Flann O'Briens
by Vickie Smalls
Saint Mark, I am writing you
a Hail Mary on a cocktail napkin
Call it an afterthought or an epitaph
an itemized receipt
for the various favors owed-
for the broken glass in the ashtray
& the lipstick stain on the drapes
& the twelve-odd dollars for that last pack
of Camels (I know,
I know,
you hate to keep me waiting-
I cross myself twice,
smoke the damn thing down to the consecration-)
Saint Mark, I am writing you
a postcard from the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon line
You know as well as I do
how the splinters under your fingernails
sting that much meaner when you’re
carrying someone else’s cross- You know
that these things have a weight and a shape to them,
our tired gestures of ritual,
that even the greatest love story ever told is just big enough
to fill a shot glass to the lip- if that- (I know,
I know,
you hate to keep me waiting-
I’ve left room for our regrets,
our hesitations-)
Saint Mark, I am writing you
an IOU on the walls of a confessional booth
an apology for all I’ll never be, I am
the daughter you never wanted &
the son you asked for &
I know I promised not to talk about the girl, but
she was burning so red & so mean & so lovely as she screamed at me-
I could have hit her back, but I
have never had your kind of Catholic constitution & so I sit,
hiding behind another pint, nursing my bruises- (I know,
I know,
you hate to keep me waiting-
The radio mutters its obscenities,
stuck between stations-)
Saint Mark, I told her
that I’d be back in half an hour,
lying through bleeding teeth
like I didn’t even need her to believe me- here,
the bar breaks out in a half-cocked chorus of Sweet Caroline,
& I contemplate the smell of napalm at last call- oh
if you could see this mess, these flaming assholes,
what’s their excuse- you & me, at least,
have business to avoid-
to say nothing of each other- (I know,
I know,
you hate to keep me waiting-
if they crucify us both,
I’ll bring champagne for the occasion-)
Saint Mark, I’m thinking about calling you
about the stage-prop plastic telephone
painted panic-room red while you
sit alone in your fallout shelter,
those translucent hands hovering, expectant,
over the receiver- I’m thinking
about drunk-dialling god and telling him
to push the fucking button already
I want to call to say I saw you
on an L-train platform,
but my lips just drip bile, silent,
like always-
Saint Mark, the things I beg of you are easy:
three grand cash
a deck of cigarettes with the filters ripped off
a paper bag to carry them in-
Time allowing,
one more chance. (& I know,
I know,
these nights keep getting harder
Saint Mark, if she asks:
You never had a daughter.)

Love in the Time of the Starbucks Drive-Thru
by Vickie Smalls
Melissa’s got a thing
for her pharmacy tech, she confesses
she’s refilling her prescriptions twice a week
just for the sake of making awkward small talk
with the girl behind the window, oh- she sighs, she says,
Green eyes always get me- like the color of that stupid shirt they make her wear,
like a drugstore dyejob
that’s a little more chlorine than bleach, and oh god,
that Bruins tattoo on the back
of her neck- she says, I’m telling you,
a million milligrams of Ativan couldn’t stop my hands from shaking, but
seeing as she’s seen the pills I’m taking (seen and sorted,
painstakingly,
into those tiny little plastic bottles- her hands, are they gentle, do you think
she wears gloves or for one brief and shining moment did her fingertips
make contact with the tablets that would
later cross your lips, do you consider
that a kiss? Or just semantics? Or anyways, she’s seen the pills, so:)
she already knows I’m crazy, and that’s like
basically getting to third base, right?
Melissa sips
her latte, eyebrow arched- I might
have an honest answer under slightly better circumstances
but I’m nursing some preoccupations of my own, and this wicked killer headache
that’s right on the verge of calcifying into a hangover- I mumble, yeah,
Green eyes always do it for me, too,
and i’m not about to admit what any of this has to do
with my insistence on this particular coffeeshop when
There was a Dunkins four blocks closer but christ, I can’t stop staring
In spite of myself- the barista
is whistling something stupid and tuneless and
wearing that one Talking Heads shirt that
might’ve been a good excuse for conversation a month ago but I never really got around
to the stage of the relationship where I formed complete sentences- (I know,
I’ve been coming here too much, but
no self-respecting addict can resist a fix, nor
any masochist a crush- it’s really nothing,
but when I stumble in all stammering, red-faced and
reeking of Miller High Life he just smiles and hands me
a dark roast, large, and points me
In the general direction of the water cooler- I swear
these small kindnesses hurt the worst)
If he and I have babies, I mutter, more to
myself than her, they’d better get his eyes- mine
are always bloodshot-
And I guess,
if these pathetic dregs of human decency
are enough to get me wet, I’m better off
not knowing anybody’s name- it’s kind of like
hiring a hundred-dollar-an-hour escort to come over
and sit on the edge of the bed, murmuring
noncommittally encouraging things about the book I’m still not working on, except
maybe better, Melissa points out-
Because in the end, she still gets her meds
and I get a cup of coffee, at least
and these other poor bastards
get to escape on their shift breaks, share a cigarette
behind the dumpster and commiserate
over unsolicited phone numbers scribbled on
credit card receipts, get to, time allowing
grab a latte,
together,
elsewhere-
at that place
with the hot barista-
Vickie Smalls is a part-time poet, occasional artist, and full-time dilettante. Typically between addresses, but can always be reached at nowherecomix@gmail.com.
Image by louis r, found on Flickr.
#poetry #vickiesmalls #februarymarch2018 #atonement #green #drinking #crushes #saintmark #starbucks