BY BRIAN SIMONEAU
Because I accept human fallibility
a man explains, voice like Telly Savalas
behind me. Voice of bald, of wide collar splayed, chain
slung across unbuttoned chest. Voice of
swarth. Words sharp as back alley glass but smooth
as a mobster about to knock you off. Imagine
Kojak scolding his table of retired buddies
for scolding the woman behind the register
who mixed up their muffins and scones. Imagine
the gentle crap he gives, network-ready curses
his ever-ready shtick, good-natured ribbing
scripted, friendship as late-night rerun. Picture
him, stubborn cop plucked from ’78 and dropped
into this bakery-café chain to talk
and talk about life insurance, nursing homes, how
every damn day of the week ends in –y, every one
different in ways that confound. Picture crooked
knuckles, recycled cardboard cup. Picture collage
and landscape hanging on beige walls anywhere
franchise fees allow. Picture grainy pictures
of perps, plots twisting but always the outcome
the same, catchphrase making its timely
appearance again. Imagine the laugh he laughs
here, the wilting hum of a set switched off.
Brian Simoneau is the author of River Bound (C&R Press, 2014). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Georgia Review, Mid-American Review, RHINO, and other journals. He lives in Connecticut with his family.