Geno's Roaches
On youth's restless green puff.
I rode a southbound Greyhound bus
Everything I owned stuffed into one duffel bag.
Forty-eight hours plus on Highway X.
I arrived in darkness and settled for the first dive I could find.
One dingy room with peeling pink walls.
With a large painting of a red heart against black.
I assumed somebody pretending to be Peter Max.
The next night-I popped into "Geno's bar", to watch a football game.
There was a handful of locals-nobody spoke.
I bellied up at the end of the bar
From my angle, I saw hordes of cock roaches racing over hot dogs.
I was young and beyond hungry but settled for the vending machine.
Somebody would order; Geno would reach for a hot dog,
I think the roaches were trained because they'd promptly jump off.
By the time the dogs reached the bar top
They were sizzling, juicy, roach-free, and red hot.
Old Geno shakily handed them their roach dogs.
I was the newest guy on the block
and didn't want to bug bomb his loyal patrons.
I guessed that the infestation was our dirty little secret,
Geno winked and handed me a free beer before halftime,
I thanked him and guzzled the warm brew down.
I got up to leave as the game was a blowout.
I said so long to Geno and his roaches and promptly blew town.
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