Bingo

by Howie Good



When your tongue,
like a flash of gunfire,
finds me,

angels gather eagerly
 
in church basements
to play bingo,
 
the furniture that landlords
piled on sidewalks burns,


a sheriff’s deputy,

a flag on his sleeve,

plows the new prowl car

  into a tree, and I break
at the edges, until all

the names of common things

cease to sound familiar.