a poem by M.R. Carter

A Night In Question

From the bluetooth to the gold tooth,
to the button-downs, to the freaks from
near and far, they have all arrived to reach
their spectravision inside your shorts. A barrage
of moistened lips, grilling and thrilling each delight
through their senses, through your seductively, subtle
maneuvers. Patrons of all shapes and colors move into
the dimmest dark to view your specials, everything's a
deal when it comes to you. I tell you, "I can't seem to
find the number you penned me last week," you turn
with interest and call back to me, words steeped
in tragedy, "I'm sorry, do I know you, sweetie?"

© by M.R. Carter

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010