Lucas pads into the kitchen after 3am
roaches scattering across his sticky floor
and up the yellow tiled walls.
Beneath the oval window a rusty faucet drips
he knows the rhythm by memory;
the clinks as the stale water hits crusted dishes;
oxidized silverware, a tower of mismatched promotional cups:
the summer blockbuster from two years ago, a new energy drink,
the 1999 final four…

Lucas lives life out of necessity not nostalgia
never has he gazed into the moonlight with dreams.
He stands half-clothed in front of the fridge and contemplates the john in his bed
the reality of the money he doesn’t know is no longer in his wallet
all because he thinks Lucas has a tight ass. Lucas knows he has a tight ass.

He also knows that every line is well rehearsed
the screenplay of the city he’s been acting in since 14.
He squashes a lone roach with a calloused heel
stuffs the night’s earnings with the others in the darkness of the freezer
and strolls back to get rid of the snoring benefactor who rented the script he was selling.