Arcades
there was nothing
like the weight
of twenty quarters
in worn jean pockets
looking into the black light
illuminated arcade boxes
lined against those dingy walls
smelling of nachos
and heated plastic
I would delve into
the violence of code
and sound and light
an electro-neon-heat
transcendence
I become
for a moment
as cool as fingerless gloves
with a set of Raybans
reflecting a setting sun
not
some lost boy
nerve-naked
wound tight
loneliness
all escape
measured
in
quarter
after
quarter
after
quarter