in the days when Mel Gibson
wore a mullet
before alcohol and sex
I sang to The Locomotion
stood tip-toes on the stool
in Grandma’s kitchen
my ear next to the boom-box
on top of her fridge-freezer
“you’ll go deaf
 with your head so close to that thing”
she’d crow from her chair
the click of knitting needles
still audible
and now, in the days
when Mel Gibson is receding
so am I…. into a hole
where only the dead dance
I haven’t had sex
for ninety three days
my hangovers hold hands
like children
circling me
the click of bones
is the only thing I hear
— a metronome
atop the silence of a grand piano
that’s almost singing
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