The man who got electric

Bar

He came in from the rain

and sat at the bar,

matchstick bones

glowing through his skin,

 

hair a nest of wires

sparking and making Nick,

the fill-in bartender,

so nervous we could smell him.

 

The women started running

sweaty equations through

their heads, polynomials

of sex gleaming like embers

 

in their eyes when he spoke,

the Tesla coil of his voice

spinning the room around

and setting our teeth flashing.

 

Bob couldn’t take it, and threw up

on his brown loafers.

“A shame,” said the man

who got electric, as he finished

 

his whiskey and ordered a double,

taking his sweet, charged time

as Edison’s ghost looked on

in pale, humming approval.

 

By Robert Crisp

 

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