Tree City Tattoo

Let's workshop this bitch!

Tree City Tattoo

Having sensed what I took to be chuckles
in the final zaps to my scapula, I drifted 
to the bathroom to see how my tattoo
had turned out. What had me worried 
was that those there, ink-master Dave 
and our two cousins, argued throughout 
about how to do the Beacon dummy light,
wresting the gun from one another at times. 

Did the three of them—or at least the two 
not at fault—give each other that look, 
owning that it was fucked, while I went 
down the hall? Did laughter break out,
only to quiet at my return? Confessional 
as people are on cocaine, what restraint 
must have been mustered from us all   
as I declared it to have been a success.

A few beach seasons later, it was all right 
for me to laugh with the other two. “Man.
Dave jacked my shit up!” Will Dave laugh
with them now (if he did not then)? High
that night, using a starter gun, it is hard
to see why not. Or do they still spare him
as I do, our meetings rare. The last time
was a funeral. He said, “Still got the tat?” 

*This poem is unpublished