Moonpie is the god-talker and king of the cantina,
he trades us shrink-wrapped, air-tight
sweeties for the plantains, boars fat hung
around rib and hind, and a million little fish.
Mamasan is the nurse made of nightingale,
toothache, and codeine.
Me, I’m the man in the middle of them—
the cold current, featherless buzzards
scrounging and the thieves.