Classified Ad
Packaging is what counts;
small boxes with
sharply defined lines
filled with simple words in
LARGE
DARK
LETTERS
to better highlight
the curves and cleavage
and cast sexy shadows
on the less desirable remainder.
Amenities included.
Price firm,
just like her ass.
Money back guarantee,
if you can catch a woman
running in stiletto heels.
We tell ourselves looking
in the mirror every morning
that whores do it just for money
We tell our selves we’re not
on our knees for the money –
we’re there for the big screen
TV’s, nice car in the garage,
nice house in the best
neighborhood with good schools
for the kid, and close
to the interstate and
all the best shopping malls.
Then we splash cool water on our face
gargle out the sour flavor
and flash a smile
to complete the perfect picture
of our parents’ American Dream.
Cigarettes at Sunset
We talk about our dreams in the alley. We
smoke and talk. Listen to the traffic speed by
apathetic and (always) in such a damn hurry.
She talks. Something’s not right.
I nod. I listen. I wait
for my turn to talk, leaning against
the crumbling apartment complex,
orbited by little lost boys
riding second-hand stolen bicycles
screaming war cries and other childish threats.
We talk. Next door, the neighbors
are fighting again. Sounds like they’ll be at it
all night. Slamming doors. Yelling. Baby crying.
The thwarted innocence disturbs me – but not enough
to call the cops or ask them to stop. It is what it is.
It doesn’t change anything. The universe
is fucking with us. You smoke. I smoke.
The words sound familiar –
some
rerun deja vu moment I know
I will notice later…
