Tonight's Poet Corner: Sharpie Mustache

Sharpie Mustache
by Belinda Roddie

It wasn't an Adolf Hitler approach, nor a
vague attempt at an even vaguer Salvador Dalí
(we'd need the drooping pocket watch to
bring out the full effect, especially with our buddy
seeming to melt himself on the
hand-me-down couch). It was, merely, a
bittersweet attempt at the debonair top hat slouch
riding solo in a drunken horseless carriage, the
English air billowing between his inked lips,
the crooked smile accomplished by the crumbs of
combo pizza stuck behind the molars, the
nostrils flared from the burn of Tennessee honey still
conversing with his small intestine.
The black marker goatee was a plus.