Saturday, September 12, 2009


Four Dos Equis and his voice a plastic
radio skipping between station

and static, my new friend lays
his hand on my shoulder, his arm

as heavy as the whole weight
of his scarred white body.

Our small table smells
of moldy towel;

he's telling me he likes
being beaten, that he's never

told anyone this, that
he hires a woman to do it.

Beyond the restaurant's open
window, I hear the evening's

last wren call softly
in the chokecherry bush,

dusty leaves stunted by diesel
spatter and constant traffic.

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