by Arlene Ang
(08/11/04)
The zip always catches.
We fumble with clothes
in the ladies room,
half drunk on tequila,
cult disco beats.
Light blinks neon blue
over her indigo-tipped breasts,
woolen skirt pushed up
to reveal unshaved parts.
My tongue unfurls.
She unsheathes a knife,
slashes my leather pants.
We bang against penned
obscenities in the stall,
no room for pillow talk.
Then she's gone. Like flushed
condom. My hands still warm
from kneading her buttocks,
I consider problems: how
to mount the Harley, drive home.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux