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Saturday Night Desperate

We talked about it at the time clock
while we waited to punch in,
how it must have been the moon
looking half-starved and the radiator whiskey
brought us to her those Saturday nights,
and how the dog with the bowling ball
head barked from her front porch, back legs braced
to charge, front legs braced to turn
and retreat, and how a willow wept
its long springy tears over the tarpaper roof,
and how she came hard
out that door hung from one low
hinge and was on you, smelling
of possum, with slick hair and a cunt
with whiskers stiff enough to grate cheese,
and how she pitched her head back, buttoned
those green eyes and shook out punk
birdcalls under her shower cap, and how afterwards
the door swung half open, the lime-scented life
of the toilet seeping through
the half-moon cut in one wall, and we nodded
each other daft, winked and said she's all that
and a bag of chips, or something like that,
and what we left out was the only
thing true: how she laid back when she finished
with us, yawned like some cat
curled in the last pocket
of a threadbare afternoon, the dull book
of a dead moth loose in its paws.

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