The Ballad of Phil White

by Lucas Pickford

“It’s a finkish world.”

-William S. Burroughs

The Independent Subway line and grey ghost of 
Queen’s Plaza panhandler following you along
Begging for change until he trails off into dreamy
past
Phil the Sailor looked into the kid’s eyes
‘With veins like that son, I’d have myself a time’
Remnants of blue movies, hypodermic needles, Times
Square, Automats
Up-town meets and no-horse towns strictly from cough
syrup
Duty calls

On through raw peeled landscape of east Texas bayou
And dead armadillos in the road
And vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps
Motel, motel, motel, with beaverboard walls, gas
heater, thin pink blankets

Johnsons who worked in hotels and Shits who finked at
Riker’s for pocket change and junk
Phil remembered them all, making his rounds as a lush
roller
He was no Stool Pigeon, no Rat, and no Bronx Opera
House
No Canary, no Grassy Gert
Phil the Sailor gave himself a long shore leave, maybe
a little too long
And when the heat closed in, he hit the road
And hung himself in the Tombs

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~ This piece was posted on Saturday, May 26th, 2007 and was filed under Poetry, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~