The dually was perched
on the lip of a gully,
door open,
lights blinking,
engine rumbling in place
and the man in the wife-beater
paused long enough
to piss and think how pretty
the puffy clouds looked –
like breasts laden heavily with milk.
As he shook his last drops,
he hummed
part of a Smashing Pumpkins song,
not aware he was skewing
lyrics to fit:
“Yesterday’s just an excuse away…”

He had left her
mixed up
in a lime green velour blanket,
sticky and splayed
at the motel off the old logging road.
“The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet…”

He had long ago
thrown up his hands
to any thought of choice,
letting women tell him where to go.
The fucker was happy,
thinking of breasts and home.
“Supper’s waiting on the table…”