15/ Soda Jerk

[First experimentations with two-event poetry.]


Looking up, there was
the blinding halo-
how heavenly- ringing
the sinner's head.


As 15 stories our necks
did crane, our hair
catching the wind. He
was a miniature from 
down here. I expected a 
plastic parachute to catch
the little molded, mass-produced
man.


But none did.


I followed the fall
from the bird's eye view
I once had,
with the limp thud,
I grasp my scars.


----------------------


Funny, how she twirled those
dopey pigtails, her short skirt
riding up as she fidgeted at
the fountain- an ice-cold coke
for a stone-cold bitch.


The soda Jerk (real jerk)
bends to flirt with her 
cherry-glossed lips.


I sit in the vinyl booth,
my chubby legs sticking-
staring at myself 
ten years ago.


I remember to unbutton the top
two buttons, even now-
but no jerks look these days.