2.18.2008

trophy

One of them asked, "Where'd that
one come from?" shortly after
I explained a few others.
An eight-inch-wide pink arch
only visible to the few and the fucked.
"I don't know," I lied.
I could've told her it came
when his genes kicked in and the
shoulders spread, but fight scars
are far more mysterious and character-forming
than stretch marks.

But those are away now, the team's playing at
home. Can't you see we're wearing dark?

She doesn't waste her breath asking
if I want another, just fills the glass
again and adds it to my tab
quickly growing.

The man to the left of me, between a phony
and a neon beer ad
just handed me a wad of twenties
thick enough to crush a lesser man.
He owed me fourteen hours, gave me
two full days. A real friend, though
I know I'm underpaid.

Drinking a Coke and mostly rum
I contemplate the odds
of owning his business
eventually, like he drunkenly suggests
from time to time.
I don't want it, just hand me a wrench
and a
good check
every Friday.

I down this one, too
barely tasting the best part
just feeling its effects and
glancing sideways at her ass.
It's too perfect to believe, just as fake
as the rest of her:
the dyed blonde hair, the glued nails
the eighth-inch layer of make-up
the stick-on eyelashes
the colored contacts, too blue
the cooked-in tan screaming for attention and tips
though she doesn't need
any, being the bar owner's wife
and, of course, the grapefruit chest
calling the name of others slightly more pathetic
than us two construction drunks sitting at the corner.

Sammy comes out, perfect name and all
trying to suggestive sell the hell out of a new cocktail
but my boss and I know better, being veterans and all.
He cruises past us and slaps
the tightest part of her suffocating black pants
as the guy forty years better than me downs the rest of his draft.

"Let's get out of here," I attempt.
"Yeah, nothing new," he salvages.
We both tip well and think of her smile
probably fake, too
and wonder if the ring is cubic zirconium.

Backing out feels better knowing ours are real

thankfully, not seamless.

No bullshit now
I tilt my head down and see
the crease between thigh and calf
and think
It's in the closet, Ain't that a bitch?
No, you wouldn't do that to him.

I'd kill for that trophy wife, but I don't want that either.

It doesn't taste as good anymore.
It's been a minute, how the fuck are ya?

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