poem: Austin LaGrone

His Name Was Frank

Each of the seven years and all
the bad luck gathered around a little fire
and talked about death’s appetites,
fortitude, and worn-out disguises.

“He’s like a tattie bogle screwing
with the rooks,” one of them says,
“Just look at him, blowing that crowslayer
like a saxophone.”

Another claims death’s been paying
the taxes on his old man’s farm
–who do you suppose is gonna
pony-up at the sheriff’s sale?

You know that painting of the skull
that looks a bit like a naked woman
for a second or two and then looks
like a skull again?

He loves that painting.

Loves it like a foot-shaped gas pedal
makes teenagers drive fast.

He isn’t afraid to admit it, he’s into sex
and death. Macbeth, Bonnie
and Clyde. It’s all the same.

Death sits down at the picture show.
He’s got the Coke, the Sugar Daddies
–but he’s only in it for the credits.
Sits there nearly two hours
just to watch the names scroll by.

Vacuum-Save had him worried.
Tupperware just pissed him off.
Preservatives, he thinks, must be here
to teach patience.

Like that jeweler doing time at Huntsville
who tapped a nickel on the same spot
for three years until the coin
bulged and turned outwards, the metal
slowly forming a perfect ring.

Death learned a lot from that man.

Gets choked up, puts on worry weight,
just thinking about it.

He knows a lot about food, especially
the last meal.

He laughs at all those damn convicts.
Steak, steak, and steak.
Why not a rack of lamb just once?

On the weekends, I’m told, death
does a little research, thumbs the new
Jaws of Life catalogue; high strength
steels, alloy pistons, heat-treated parrot blades
for smooth, scissor-cutting action.

Good, he thinks, a little friendly competition.

Death once read a poem about death.
Do you know he stood up, put his boots on,
packed a bag, got on a train, went down to Arkansas
and shot that poet three times in the heart.

Born and raised in Louisiana, AUSTIN LAGRONE cheated the Wall of Death in a Shriner scooter, took “possum” prize at the Carrol County chainsaw carving competition, and brushes his teeth with a Slim Jim. He holds degrees from St John’s College and New York University. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Brilliant Corners, Hayden’s Ferry, Spoon River, and The New York Quarterly. He lives in Bedford-Stuyvesant and teaches at John Jay College.