Locked in his bedroom with a collection of 45’s

songs too loud for his voice, always out of breath,

Artie rarely lasted to the chorus, bent over in a chair,

head between his knees, sucking air.

During a record change, he combed his thin

blond ducktails, admired his tough guy profile.

If not for his cleft palate, even with a heart

wild across his chest, he still might have sung

on a stage for hysterical girls.


Contents Next Poem Published Works