I want to buy a vowel.

Round O of confession and black lounge tables.

Of no-name cigarettes and blank stares

the cocktail waitress gives out for free.

I want to place a bet on subatomic particles

with the dealer in the sequined dress.

My husband is my bull's eye

playing poker in this matrix of slots.

And the green beaded bracelets allow us to graze

the buffet of mango and snapper.

There is no measure for quantum boredom

tapped in the five-card stud room

or for the science of luck.

How photons of blind hope

re-invent themselves into new states of matter

while we barter jet-skis and Cuban cigars.

The song is of so many weeping hands.

I keep on with the bad drinks and blackjack,

and when the steel drum band transports me

to a billboard of a tropical beach

it's not the dirty one outside the casino

torn umbrellas like sad tulips

but a true leg of silky sand

where a man in capped white sleeves serves fruit drinks.

Copyright New England Review Winter 1999
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved