The Jolly Tinker
I build a rocket from beer bottles
and rose petals – light the fuse – almost explode
to the stratosphere – sputter out
freefall – fireball
into the Bronx on a 100° day
when the streets smell like hot
garbage in a stew
of falafel; subway screeches
are the upholstery needle
fingers of a lover scraping down
my back:
into a bar stool where everything
is dim and Captain Jack plays
on repeat. Staring down
a glass of whiskey, wiping away
the sweat after each sip
checking my phone every five
minutes that slide across the floor
like a lover frictionless from sweat