Saturday, December 1, 2012


drunk she arrived at his door.

Through the tiny window glass
she could see both of them.  He was
brushing her hair, a tortoiseshell
cat loving every stroke, the blue
of her dress so post Lewinsky.

Deleted from his life unpredictably
had been like being cut from the grade
six volleyball team for being too skinny
even if she could serve.

This new player was shapelier, younger
with big greedy eyes, tongue ready
to lap up his ultimate spills.

Who said vodka has no taste?
Or that it goes down smoothly?
Nothing had ever been so rough.

Except possibly
the new girl’s pretty tongue, tasteless
and full of backwards-facing spines.

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