February 5, 2009


by Alan Britt

A tiny grey bird,
like an afterthought
or an ash,
abandons the menorah
of a blue spruce.

Keith Richards
drags his guitar case
through the Tampa airport,
settles in
at a motor lodge
once sleepwalked
by Nico Suárez
as a starving poet.

Due to the juxtaposition
of planets,
they never meet.

On vacation in Bolivia, tonight,
Nico & Kristine watch
as blue neon flames of a cantina
below flicker on & off.

Drunken bullets
leave teeth marks
in their alabaster ceiling
& walls.

Twenty years later
at Veterans' Stadium in Philadelphia,
some of this hot lead
lands on the reptile strings
of Keith’s guitar.

*Alan Britt teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University in Maryland.


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