by Karl Koweski
(09/02/09)
the cure-all
she braces her red cowboy boots
against the car door
and drapes her body
across the front seat
blonde hair tousled on
my trembling legs
I stare down at my face
reflected in the two shiny
silver eyes
my thumb caresses
her chin rubbed raw
from my week's worth of beard
hand entwines her hair
I dip down and kiss her again
greedily
each touch of our tongues
an endangered species
soon to be extinct
when she boards the plane
to return to her husband
and I take the long drive
back to my wife and kids
"my belly hurts," Misty says
"I shouldn't have ate
that waffle and then
drank that big margarita"
"poor baby," I run my hand
down her ribcage
replacing her own palm
atop her queasy belly
"lucky for you
I know a cure"
her striped dress rides
up her pale hips
my fingers roam the elastic border
of her dark green panties
bristling against the stubble
of her pussy
she couldn't shave at home
without arousing suspicion
her breath catches in her throat
as my finger slips between
her already moist lips
Misty sighs
closes her mouth against my own
her thighs flex,
raises her ass off the seat
welcoming my finger inside her
out tongues swirl
in rhythm with my thumb
rubbing against her clit
I take my finger out long enough
to give her cunt
several stiff slaps
before delving back in
her orgasm comes sharp and fast
red cowboy boots
bucking against the car door
and we're so caught up
in curing her stomach ache
we scarcely notice
the Books-A-Million customers
walking by the car parked
four spaces away from the door
five song fuck
morning finds me pounding thoughts
with this fuzzy hammer mind.
I'm aware of my sweat sock tongue
busted elastic loose in my mouth
and the filleted wallet
fitting slim in my back pocket.
buoyed on the ocean of Coors Lite
memories of Angela
hard-bodied stripper
with the red hair and blonde highlights
and the two hundred dollar
five song fuck in a back room
closet black-lit to dull the
sexually-transmitted imperfections.
muscles screaming against
the contortionist remembrance
of the bench we balanced on,
a thin plank of varnished wood
scarcely adequate for sitting.
I doubt I'd recognize her now
the obscuring make-up
keeping her once removed
from the men who may not
be terribly interested in
looking at her face to begin with.
I can't even recall
the color of her g-string
or the music our
fuck soundtrack consisted of.
worse, I've forgotten the
elaborate excuse I forged
explaining to my wife
what happened to my paycheck.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux