Sunday, January 9th, 2011
don winter | even the dead are growing old | 4 poems
Marcella’s Fantasy House
Nights at this place
he drank beer after beer.
His gut rolled
like a melon on the felt.
He said he could beat any of us
and mostly he was right. He played us
for quarters so he could feed
his thing for Hank and Willie
on the one juke box.
Paydays he wanted his winnings
in shots, so he could get drunk [...]













