Tonight's Poet Corner: Hometown Blues

Hometown Blues
by Belinda Roddie

Dropped out of high school to sell
handmade cigars at the market every
Thursday. Made a killing, actually. People
thought the shitty stogies I rolled were
Cuban. Nah, bro. Homegrown, full-blooded
American. You can't import that kind of
nationalist spirit. Stains your teeth red,
white, and blue and makes you spit fireworks.

My dad had been a welder 'til he lost all five
fingers on his left hand in a freak accident
he won't go into detail about. It must have
been freaky, because we only found out
about the injury when he staggered home,
drunk, with blood dripping from the mangled
lump of flesh attached to his wobbling wrist.
He didn't want to go to the emergency room 'cause
we didn't have healthcare and he didn't want
my mom to go bankrupt. Nice guy, I guess.
Right now, he's dying from liver cancer. Loves
his whiskey more than he loves his kids.

Found my ex-girlfriend at the old arcade
that somehow still gets enough kids
to feed those near-broken giant consoles
more tokens so they can vomit more tickets
to buy more senseless plastic nothings.
She bought a stogie from me, and at first
I felt bad for taking her money. But then
she introduced me to her wife, and I didn't feel
so guilty anymore.

We smoked together in the parking lot, ignoring
the truck engines gurgling around us. Ignoring
the screeching radios and grumbling drivers
already wasted before five PM. Ignoring the
smell that comes from a lit match as we both must
have mentally debated burning the damn place down
and not giving a damn about the jail time.