Pretty

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.