Thunder Sandwich #26 - Sara Gelston

Flamingo

In June we had that bird, its fuchsia

propeller wings trapped between

flats of zinnias and jumper cables,

it's pink wooden head sticking

from the trunk as we searched

between the seats for change, spending

what we never had-- the drive

inland wordlessly, the road's potholes

knocking the bird around, a clanking

of wood against metal as we both imagined

how we might stab its spindly pine legs

through the ground; of the sound

as they would splinter, shards coming out

this way and that, of the bird remaining steady

in the earth as we continued on silent.

A TELEGRAM FROM NORMAN MAILER

You'd be a terrific fucking boxer

if you were born a man, but it never hurt

for a dame to throw her hat or a punch

in the ring.--STOP-- I'm certain you have one

or two or ten men waiting by the ropes that deserve

the ol' one-two, a last word, a final blow.--STOP--

You tell 'em it's not age, but stamina, that counts

in the end.--STOP-- Remember, fellow maverick,

why have one persona when you can have twenty?--STOP--