Midnight

I’ll Tell You What I Do Know, Ricky

No luck taking her shirt off
while she’s smoking a cigarette.

I tried it once, Ricky,
and you just have to wait it out.

If you do get it off, don’t get sad
when she calls you Scott

because she still has feelings for him
and it probably just slipped out.

A good way to ruin dinner
is to ask who the fuck Scott is

because honestly, Ricky, you don’t
want to know and she will tell you.

If her friends throw beer caps
at you, just get out of their way,

even though it hurts when they say
they thought you’d be cooler. They’re just drunk.

If her old goateed boyfriend threatens you
be as flattered as you can

without getting punched. Don’t grow a goatee
and don’t ask if that goon was Scott.

If her firefighter dad is drunk
and wants to slow dance with you

at her cousin’s wedding, do it
because after that, you’re in.

If her Lutheran pastor dad suggests you sleep
on the couch, and kisses her

more than you do, don’t sneak up to her room
even if she calls to you down the steps,

sexy in her childhood pajamas,
because if he found you, it would kill him

If her dad is dead
be good to her and good luck.

And no matter what, Ricky,
know—and I’m telling you this

because you’re my best friend,
and heard these stories before

and we laughed but it’s not funny—
no matter what, you and her

are this close.

Endoscopy

They dropped a camera
through your guts, and I,
of course,
am jealous.

You wore a bad sort of lingerie—a
tissue
with a hole for your head—
gave a wave,
and then they closed the door.

There would be nurses
but male nurses were a possibility,
watching you with your mouth open,
full of their tubes, your insides on TV.

I paced the waiting room like a city.
What would it be?
An old man with cancer
offered me a cigar, but I refused.

Finally, the doctors came
out, snapping their gloves, jerking
them off
with teeth. “Congratulations!” they
said,
“It’s nothing.”

Just stress, our old familiar. Simple
stress. Everyone in the waiting room
gripped their stomach aches
tighter and then we left.

Back on the street, you were stoned
and lost, suddenly in love
with your outpatient date,
a drug whose company you liked
better.

I guided you back to bed,
a dud missile in a peace-time parade,
heavy and kind, where you dreamt
of the hard kiss he gave you

on the arm—bruised already—
turning muddy as a high school hickey,
and the furniture watching you
as you sleep.