“Shower?!  Man, That’s for Amateurs!”                                                                      

Between Adam’s “Yo, bros” and Sooz’s GPS,
somehow we manage to roll from the Trash Bar
in Brooklyn to the open-windowed 35th floor
of Manhattan—“Man, Vic, Vic, Vic.  Check out
the falling stars.”
“On the expressway, Sammy?”

From that height, the narrow road does indeed
look God-made, tiny headlights sparkling; and orange,
splashing off blue skyscrapers, swirls purple across
Roger’s sleeping cheeks, spotlights the show in here:
tip-toeing in black hightops, motorcycle boots powering down.

Post-dawn, the wake-up caller strokes his streaked hair:
“So, hey, anybody grab our pay?” Matt’s black hair had lain down
for the night, but now it perks up, along with nipple rings,
from a velvet-pillow nest.  Heavy black and silver belts uncoil
from their partners on the glass tabletop, leather and mesh

fingerless gloves, visored, spiked, spider-webbed cap,
their owner suddenly awake among leopard-print tassles
and his buddy’s motionless, spring-curled head.
The synchrony of snores has stopped, one musician at a time
growling at daylight. Sammy stands rubbing his thigh,
purple from the beat, beat, beat of last night’s crescent tambourine.

Mignon Ariel King is a lifelong resident of Boston, Massachusetts. Her poetry credits include Bagelbards anthologies, Lyrical Somerville, and the exhibit, The Mayor's Poetry and Prose Program. An alumna of Simmons College, the former adjunct professor of English now works in non-profit database management. She became an avid Rock fan at the age of 10, eating cookies and milk while watching the Midnight Special.