Prize
Sam Schott, dead in Baltimore
of lead poisoning
and congenital bad luck.
Face down, stupid with death,
full of it, like the ribs
he’d order from Southside
Johnny D’s food truck,
only more so, more than
he could ever possibly eat.
Incurably sated was he.
I remember Sam smiling,
drunk on box wine and
low-grade eight ball,
shirt spattered red as last
Christmas and a smile
as gapped as Halloween.
Fingers big as hot dogs
nimbly holding a former
front tooth. Sam asking,
“Well, what did I win?”
Mason Street 