Beads

�These are my Jerry Beads,�
he said proudly,
shaking the metallic gold beads against his chest.
Actually, he�d received them for Mardi Gras.
He didn�t say �I�m down for anything�
or �I have five different children by five different women;�
none of the things you hear on Jerry Springer.
Still, there was the fact that he had earned them.

He would have made a great tour guide at Disneyland,
working the Jungle cruise.
No doubt some leggy blonde Presbyterian would
find some amusement in those beads,
refreshment in his dimpled grin, his smooth cocoa skin,
and let herself be convinced that hyenas never
get sad and lions have no secrets.

                                                                                                © Emily Brink

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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