Virus-- The Prelude

I've got a friend who always sleeps till late morn',

Wipes his eyes when the sun has long risen,

When the morning doves stop cryin'

 

He's past 40, lives with his mom

His mom never with a husband; he without a father's name

Cigarette and coffee stained teeth

Her bony arthritic wrist barely lifts a cast iron pan.

 

When it's the last of the morning doves, 

she sizzles bacon for her only son,

eggs cook in the hot, fallen grease 

A cough and cigarette smoke

The man rises to the shuffle of old kitchen chairs

He sits at the table and eats in dripping silence

He rarely speaks in the late morn'

A cough and cigarette smoke, the mother wants to know her only son.

He says: "I'm going to Atlantic City. Leaving soon. Have to get to the airport."

"But you have no job? Where'd you get the money?"

"Don't worry, I got the cash."

 

The mother saw the faded tattoo on the skin of his arm.

"You don't look so good. You got a fever or something?"

"Nah, nah. I feel fine. When I get back from Atlantic City, we'll be so rich we can forget about this place."

 

He heard the honk of the car horn. Grabbed his luggage and wobbled sick down the apartment stairs.

That night a dove died. He'd never seen it before: A dead morning dove, lifeless at his feet. The music in its wings gone.

 

He got in my car. We drove to the airport with our friends in the back seat. I felt feverish, my memory beginning to fade. For a moment I couldn't recall my name/his name/a fiance's name/a jazzy song about cryin' doves.