wearing your face

In the wake of a seven forty seven
ripping open the zippered night sky,
he blows into the lobby ¹
Smoking table for one? Ten minute wait.

He tucks the pager deep into his front pocket
takes off baseball cap,
rakes through greasy hair and
sucks peppermints until his number is up.

Loose change jingles in the pager’s vibration
Damn baby, send that again, I didn’t quite
get your message.

Ignoring his crudity,
she leads him to the back table,
a plastic coated menu in hand.

Mormon records say he is dead
but pins and patches say different,
lined down that jean jacket like this Pretty Polly here
who offers him crackers with his winter harvest chili special
or if you prefer, we have home baked cornbread.

With this, she imagines him picking the gritty crumbs
that fall down to his baggy crotch
with his cracked yellow fingernails.

He however, cleans up the crumbs
with this new tongue licking slut
begging for morsels that fall.

Cock twitches its greeting
and Jimmy’s grinning like some disturbing
twisted whiskers greeting card dog with a human mouth
and bug eyes that bulge in surprise
of how fucking old you are getting.

New game:
how many times he can get her to say crackers
excuse me?
C r a c k e r s or C o r n b r e a d?
what and cornbread?
Crackers, crackers!

Suddenly this is her secret lover-code for
sliding his hot buttered cock between the cheeks of her pilates high kick ass
crackers, baby
come on fuck my ass

Opalescent lips press with the intolerance
of hair pulled back hard edged.
He just knows she was the Heather in high school
who spread herself for Daddy’s jacuzzi jets
while replaying that obscene phone call
what are you wearing, baby
over and over this time she swears will tell him
I am wearing your face
This time she will touch her pussy for him to check for wetness
instead of hanging up,
instead of listening silent while his breath grew more desperate,

This time she will tend to that unexplained burn
between hard pressed legs as requested

instead of waiting for the handle of Aunt Emma’s vacuum,
loud motor humming into mysterious places.

Her frigid act only dropped for the machines
never for a live cock and motor
and organic high pressure spray.

Still, he knows
she is just like everyone and would take him
two minutes flat if he got her half way down to the truth.

He uses the corner of the laminated tri-fold desert menu
to pick a string of spinach from the greasy cheese dip
stuck between his teeth.

Making sure she is watching,
he tongue kisses the five dollar bill
then in Sharpie thin point on clean napkin
he prints his number and:
Call me I can show you an appropriate replacement
for that stick you got up your ass
Tonight you can ride your fingers and plastic cock
or you can have the real thing, back at my place,
on your knees; without a single stitch.²

¹in " Better than Sex ", by denis hale ©2004.
²in " Café au lait Casanova ", by neonurotic ©2003.