Plaything

I regain consciousness. God lights my cigarette.
We’re in Havana. It’s a night club. We’re
waiting for the Devil. We’re having it out.
It’s rather glamorous, in many ways all I’ve
dreamt about. I’m tanned to black. I’m wearing
a gold wristwatch expensive as a house in the country.
I’m missing no one, likening myself
to anyone/thing that pops in my head.
I have another fruity drink, I eat the paper umbrella.
The waitress, with drop-dead sex-appeal, looks me straight in
the eyes. The Devil sets her on fire, there’s an ash outline
where she stood. The Devil sticks his tongue in my mouth.
God gets in a huff. I’m erect. Don’t you see why
I’ve never been interested in you? This is my drama,
my love interests hot at either ear. Look how slowly I take
the pills. I name them.
All my life I’ve been rehearsing this scene:

gold filigree pops up around me, Doric leaves, frou-frou,
orchid patience, a la-de-da chorus of angels,
weight thrown on one hip, fake-fur settee,
marigold squished in exalted rush

Your valentine arrived today.
It went up in flames in my hand.
With bandaged fingers I dial your number.
Click go the heels of Death.
I’m dancing again slow grinding —
tambourines I hear them still
above the lid and piled dirt.

copyright 1987 by Harry Kondoleon