Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Steve Trebellas

Sweet Dimes

I offer sweet dimes to precious sleep that plays hard to get on this night of nights — hung in the coin-op sky like a beggar's glass eye, above the laundromat, as I become one of many who stare through window fans and Venetian blinds at the advertised city. I've petitioned God, prayed to the Son of Man, to quiet this Chrysler mind — cruising tangent streets between electric night and dawn, but am vigilant under naked bulb — 60 cycles per second to keep pet fears from leaping and binding my frame like snakes. As the evening unfolds, the smell of tar and creosote prevail, winding like Lethe through red-brick lanes and rows of lamps that loom like hooded cobras, above the midway, and the street of dreams — where a generation of Brandos kick and curse their motors to life. All holy Denver awake in the witching hour, sound of engines ripping through; I offer sweet dimes in the Mexican night — no substitute for what Henrico y Carlotta do so loud across the hall. I listen with dog-envy as the moon rises above a machined skyline as if hoisted by some giant, invisible crane. In the distance — near the makeshift Zocalo, a Ferris-wheel slowly turns, brilliant and burning in primary colors. Its bright promise explodes my walls and my thoughts join genital gangs that roam incandescent streets in the din and smoke of carnival spring.