I wrote this.


the man I want carries a switchblade
instead of a library card and has hands fit
to change a flat or work a jackhammer

he woos me with dirty stories of what
he�ll do with his workboots off

he harbors a past under his skin
stories of hitchhiking through the desert
fill in the gaps in employment

to be romantic he lifts me up like
a child carried sleeping from a car
and we spend the night at Motel 6

in the next room teenagers dance
in cheap pastel dresses and rented tuxedoes
their rap songs and raucous sex
pump through the walls

on this bed he reels me into his smell and sweat
his hands spread over my ears like flattened stars
and together we shut out the sound

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