Salvatore Difalco: Gums and Pomatums

Just hint at fault, the ivory
smile, the rising forehead.
Don’t trust the checked
wool pants that salt and
pepper the eye as he flies
down the leafy boulevard.
Jerry Lee Lewis on radio
causing itch to the air,
the delicate girl barefoot
taken in stride, trying hard
not to lose her ingenuity.
Still, we allow for the long
faces, the Modigliani hang
to the man in the checked
pants with blood on his hands
that he rubs through his hair.
Jerry Lee Lewis—what is
that tune that detaches you
from your reality? Is it
always a shaking leg or
a bone fragment sticking
out of your busted shin?
We fight, we love, we grease
ourselves to fit right in.