Juke

What kind of juke do you prefer?

For me, it’s the kind with three

songs and thirty-seven blank

title strips. Three songs, and two

are “Luckenbach, Texas.”

The third is beautiful and arcane,

but the patrons hate it,

and the record skips.

I prefer the three-song juke

and the three-toothed human

smile. I found the juke of my dreams

in a bar called “Chums,” no clue

the origin or meaning

of the quotation marks. It was a prime

number of a bar, and now it’s dead.

One night, drinking half-and-

halfs, half beer, half tomato juice,

with schnapps chasers, a cheap

source of hallucination.

A soon-to-be-defrocked Catholic

priest, Vic Jr., my mother, and me,

our faces streaked blue with pool

chalk, juke red as a beating heart,

and just a strip of hollyhocks

and a tree line between us

and the northern lights.

I was young. I looked like a Rubens

painting of a woman half-eaten

by moths. What lucky

debauchery, the ride back

on a washboard dirt road,

taking everything for granted,

flipping off the aurora borealis

like it was some three-toothed human

in flashy clothes dancing

to get my attention.

I wasn’t a mean drunk then,

just honest.

Next morning, mom walked in

on the naked priest

in the shack’s garage,

washing himself with a rag

and cold water from the well

in a metal dishpan. I’d later do dishes

in that pan and wash my hair

in that pan. We popped popcorn

on the one-burner wood-burning

stove and ate it out of that pan.

I’m talking about a time and a place.

All I can say of it is that it was real.

The song choices were limited,

so the grooves were dug deep.