Ode to the Midwest

I'm calling this enough. This work and the occasional fuck. Ask me about it. Come visit little children I've got chocolate drink and thin cigarettes. Bring lonely fathers with ample pieces dancers and Americans: farm men with hands like sledge hammers and voices raspy from exposure. Ready to bridge the divide of guilt and sorrow between these woman legs. Make it up to me between sheets and black crosses with cool vanilla cream fingertips and a tongue deceptive as snow.