rare meat

rare meat

a poem

about rich opal

whose lies

are still lying

on me and

pancho

her bar tables

and bad habits

with steak, ribs,

bathrooms and butt

grabbing

after liar’s dice

soiled

kisses

in the bar

where her dark

locked out sunshine

and names written

on undersides of tables

and condom machines

as memorials

for alcoholics

along with phone numbers

including area code

with the phrase,

help me, I can’t do this

I can’t do this

I can’t do this

a pulse

I heard in my ear,

as I lay my head on my arm,

on the floor,

disappeared

when I stood

after some hands

and wrists dragged

me from the wood floor

where my eye saw feet dancing,

on dirt, dust, and dust bunnies or mice

or whatever they’re called

I could see under everything

where nothing

had been mopped

for quite some time

because I was drunk,

I wanted to ask pancho

if those married women

who asked me for sex

and their husbands

who asked me for the same thing

were dancing together

but he was listening

to racist jokes in the corner