The Hollow Under the Hullabaloo

This was when I was at the Karma Cop.
That big gleaming club on Broadway.

So I’m working the door
and this kid there looks
too young to come in
plus he’s got no ID
so I tell him no.

And we stand there
staring each other down.

He’s got eyes like TV screens

each flashing different
jackpot atrocity highlights
that never quite match
what’s swirling in the other.

But there’s nothing under his stare
—like it doesn’t come from him—
so I decide to focus on that.

Then he grabs his wallet
and tugs out a credit card
and keeps slapping it with the back
of his hand under my face sneering

“Visa GOLD! Visa GOLD!”

And I keep staring
into the hollow under the hullabaloo

and I feel my body
widening like a wall
between him and the door
and I smile into his flickering face

and say no.

And he calls me a piece of shit
and stalks off.



.