HER, FOR INSTANCE
Her body now an overpeppered stew:
so much raunch through the years, leaving flesh
tallowy and slack. The bruised fruit
of her bony thighs and hips, rebar
fingering the too-ripe cantilever
of her breasts. Skin a kind of coarse
deadwood, cells dropping off in a blue fog
of cigarette smoke and backbeat memories.
On this corner, neon liquor and rough
trade coursing the streets in late-model
sedans, saying: taste this touch. She stands
with the other restored wrecks, giving it
the old lip lick, eyebrow raise, the old flash
and bend. Such a cult of quotation, groinish
euphuism, embroidering the cul-de-sac sentence
of the day. And this day following the others
with all the vivid piety of ritual and obloquy.
One obstreperous penis after another. A postcard
home to her son. A bottle of Jolt to offload
the taste. Spring blossoms floating above buses
on Bush Street, adding nature’s saturnine slap
in the face to the parade of the indented.