The hicks push their hats back to watch Black Trish dance
on a pedestal the size of a pizza pan. She will do a slow grind
to whatever alley-blasting Top-Ten hit management likes,
but stares at an invisible horizon line as if bumping
in a Balinese Temple

By default, the diversion—the only local exotic
with her calf-length boots made of white plasticine
and her signature out-sized Fro wig, only
I didn’t know it was was fake, but found out after she
caught my devotion and drove me to Richmond Indiana—
an angry stone’s throw from Greenville and the Ohio border.

We went through the door and straight to bed where she pulled off
her wig, five pounds of gold-gilt, an underwire bra,
and a prosthetic foot, hidden inside her left boot.  After
dropping her dentures in a fruit jar, she said “Come on—
is you man or what?”

I said, “You must be a Sagittarian” (which she was.)

I stayed because I was nineteen, fearless and enamored
by broads with balance. Think I kid? Try this:

Cut a circle the size of a pizza pan, prop it seven feet in the air,
tie a brick to your left foot, climb up, dance like you’re in heat,
smile, don’t look down. You will know what I mean by “balance,”
and all a young man can learn about Metaphor.
~  ~  ~

Steve Trebellas, born in Long Island in 1952, is a cold-war relic. He and his parents lived in Levetown, an early experiment in prefabricated suburban living. Everything was covered in linoleum. FF in 1968, he was a sparkling youth of 16 and in Chicago for the Democratic Convention riots. Later, he traveled America extensively via his thumb. In 1982 he got a deal at the Naropa Institute, met Alan Ginsberg and often drove the old poet, who had no car, around. Late in life he finally finished his undergraduate degree and went on to get his MFA at Southern Illinois University, where he contributed to their chagrin by starting a T.A. Union. Today, he lives in Burlington, Iowa a small town on the Mississippi River where he lives in a gas station and does odd jobs. His mind is gone.