The metallic taste I got from being served upon a tray
in the Sac County Jail, or bumped against
the dented cans at the Dented Can Warehouse.
The stale scent, the elbow scrapes: I was a billiard ball
for those who cared to knock me in the pockets
on the table in The Wreck Room afterhours.
It wasn’t only Amtrak pulling trains each night.
Each man who lost his stake in me had lost
his gamecock, his bathhouse boychick,
the pullet at the pumphouse, the tipsy one, free-living.
The cues were often skewed. When simple coxcombs
preened, I wasn’t squeamish on their knees
as, without means, I groomed their inch-long wattles.
I’m getting on in years. I’m past my freshness date.
If I have balked at play, it’s that this chicken
tastes no more like table fowl. I blame the microwaves.
You blame the chemicals and drugs. Yes, I’m a little overdone,
I’ll warrant you. You want a little cut. Get in here, then,
pull back the skin and crisp it,
before the insatiate drunks come round with greasy fingers,
distribute me between the bars, and pinch my biscuits.