friday night in the drunk tank

by DB Cox

floating over drunk tank hum
a voice
at the back of the holding cell
demands a phone call

warm blood
begins to move
back into my numb hands
from cuffs--too tight

tiny shards of glass
from a beer-bottle bar fight
embedded in my
blood-matted hair

crystal ringing
in my brain
like a beautiful
girl’s name

left eye swollen shut
thirteen dollars
stashed in the soles
of my old dingos

not enough for bail--
another friday night
in the city jail
for trying to make something

out of the emptiness
that crawls along
this boulevard
of half-remembered things