by Dennis Mahagin
(03/11/09)

In mid-afternoon
with the toaster ready
to explode, she blows him
kisses, with a shimmy

of unclad hips in semi-
circular thrusts and dips, she licks
strawberry marmalade off her middle
finger tip, while he stares

at her erect nipples, his cheeks hot
as apple dumplings hissing along

a brain pan kissed by crimson

undulation.

"He was just a boy," she declares,

cool as a Creamsicle. "Meant nothing and I
fucked him exactly twice...now, can't you
be the least bit nice?"

He snorts, and stomps

out of doors, to stoop and rake

sodden leaves with a two by
four he can't remember where he picked
it up anymore. "WELL COLOR ME!" he howls

an untended eye sore.

It's a crisp morning in mid-
January, atmosphere scent of wet
dirt and fresh-scrubbed red

spud skins. With mouth pursed

tight as a rose bud, he tosses aside
the wood, he chops
at the chill air like a fevered
kamikaze doing Tai Chi
in a big damned
hurry. Shortly, angel hair

clouds of steam

can be seen coming

from his ears, the lobes gone
beyond rouge,

birds steer clear
while the twenty-ish

redheaded

hard body

postal delivery

girl...stops,

at the upraised mail flag,
like a video poker rounder
simply bound

to try her luck

again, heart flush,

heart flash

-- he stares, as the girl reaches past

the Camellia bush, he watches her push
a rigid bolus of rubber-banded stuff
into the triangular mail slot,

he thinks

of red-hot
toaster prongs,
grapefruit
marmalade,
bite marks
his wife's lover made
on her corded neck, taint
of exertion just beneath
the clavicle. He cinches up
the sash of his bathrobe, stands
straighter, smoothing down the long
mauve crease at the ass. Up the porch
steps he goes -- back
inside, where so many
more questions reside,
with answers he already
knows, God help the

man he knows.

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