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The Weakening
by Radames Ortiz
Lime green apron
draped against his hips
while pulling shots
at a cool 49 seconds.
Bitter steaming coffee
poured into porcelain cups.
With arms, like bending
branches, he works the smiles
of women into turtle-shell
glasses & snakeskin heels.
4 or 5 drinks at a time. Maybe 6.
Barista with the golden arm.
Tap dancing across chrome horizon
while his old man’s voice
fills the cave of his ear,
“You ain’t shit boy.”
Like the eternal fluttering
of a crow’s wings. Like the
eager humming of a dragonfly.
A scratching of the skull.
A pulling of the nails.
& though he hovers tabletops
with ragtime precision
or down & out boogie
the smooth song of his pops
shakes loose footwork
meant to outlast
metaphysics & the flesh.
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