of his crumbling bedroom walls
while recapping the
sins of the day:
His hand hurts now
from cat scratches
remnants of a game
he played with her new kitten
similar to the toying
that rounded out the visit.
A few new books, unread
sat atop her dresser.
"You need to be
with someone like you,"
she declared, making excuses
on his behalf--
as if to say that's easy;
as if they're lining up.
Then she pulled off her shorts again.
(This hurt worse
than the claws.)
There it was, engulfing him:
that pink butterfly
which almost kept him happy.
Her mother called
mid-stroke
so she reached to mute
the phone.
Some sick part of him
hoped that she would answer
pretending not to pant
as her back was blown out.
It ended, as always
with seed spilled
snubbing God.
Denim climbed his legs
and he lit up on her porch.
"I haven't smoked all month,"
she said.
"The last time that we met."
He wonders if she'll blame him
when the cancer fills her lungs.
"Am I the only one?"
she asked.
He smiled, sucked down fire.
The only one today, poor girl.
The week is still so young.
No comments:
Post a Comment