Wind kicking dust into nothing; one spent Lucky seething
on a junk heap: It’s Toasted. Spark, then flare, then the rug
of smoke curls south. Gallery show tonight and his prints have gone to cinder.
He stands in the street barefoot, fumbles with a gloss-black roll of film
as the neighborhood empties. A woman rides shotgun,
the acid swirls of a Pucci scarf clutched to her face.
The vice president, wielding garden hose & suitcase, admits defeat;
a lesser-known actor loads his hunting dog in the bed of a pickup.
That evening, the artist drags a folding chair to the edge
of the tennis court, watches the moon ascend as empty beer cans
multiply at his feet. He drinks not to his ruined house, or to the lives
of pocketbook dogs and parakeets surely lost, but to the photographs
never to be captured again: Acapulco Gold, two sticky grams,
in a little glass coffin. His wife, shirtsleeves rolled, considering
mackerel & anchovies under grocery-aisle fluorescence. A Mobil
sign cutting the night like religion, gasoline twenty-two cents
a gallon. He remembers a margarita sweating in blue-dipped
Mexican glass. Next to it, a crystal ashtray crowded, smoldering.
Bel Air, 11/6/1961
—
Claire Christoff recently completed her MFA at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Her work has appeared in Passages North, The Los Angeles Review, Studies in Popular Culture, and elsewhere.