anthony gayle

Tequila Rose

Going down
the runway of run-a-ways,
a heavy scent of hairspray and perfume follows close behind
like the train of a dress
while eyes light up like Tiki torches in the dark.
It's a special blend to protect her against the sweat,
smoke and reek of egg-shaped men,
faces hidden behind beards and baseball caps.
"Easy money!" he shouts, spreading dollar bills like a paper fan.
Repulsed, she smiles.
Preoccupied with thoughts of groceries and day care,
she feigns interest in whatever he has to say.
He's never had to pick up the phone
and sense something menacing in the silence
or open his front door to find a long-stemmed rose watered in semen.
She straddles him,
letting her hair brush against his face
like soft cloth curtains at a car wash.
"How about a private dance?" she says,
kissing him on the cheek
like a lover getting ready to slip out into the night.