Poetry

_sex and red hair_

I was doing my laundry
when sex and red hair
walked by. her
back arched backward
and her red hair, too.
she wore blank tights
with no panties that
showed her sex
and I almost didn't
smile back.
she was washing
her dainties and
fancies. the lace
was a tossed salad in
the wash.
she had no bra
under her spandex
top and I saw
2 dots of sex
through 1739 strands
of red hair.
I said,  "do you have any
dryer sheets?"
she said, "yes. in my room. wanna
come with?"
"sure," I said, "just let me
get my poetry notebook."
"poetry, huh?"
"yes. i'm a poet," I said.
she looked interested,
the sex and red hair. i'd made
it a point to talk about
poetry. she'd fucked a friend
who'd read her his poetry
and he was no good:
   Roses are Red
   Let me count the ways
we got to her room and the
fishes bubbled in the corner
and her sex smell hung on
the air like a man holding
a building side with a forefinger
and a  fuck you .
"just a minute," she said and
stood on her little toes to
get the dryer sheets
off a top shelf and
I stared at her
hot sex through the
tights
and watched her
red hair like a Sabatini match‹
swaying back and forth and
back and the other way‹
and I smelled the
man about to lose
the fuck you and
she said, "how many do
you want?"
I said, "one. two. three. I don't
care. i'm bummin'."
she laughed with
the sex and red hair.
"I want to read your
poetry sometime, 'K?"
"sure."
the falling man
yelled, "fuck you ."
 

 

 


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