Cash in that Rain Check

Cash in that rain check
big stroke mortal ink
irons in a fire you’ve ever left to burn the dark seas are hungry.

Belly churning
here on midnight beach
flame of apparition peach pictures hot dig African firefly night.

Cash in that rain check
a panting suitcase awaits

a mahogany snap away

from cargo street paradise.

Cash in that rain check
no pussy-footin’ around
the hour is now take a nip sweet tot hop that holy teapot whistle wind until the teller’s tale reels you in
and the... rail light disappears.

Poem Michael D. Amitin,
Photograph Julie Peiffer