I see you
from the corner of my eye,
bloodshot and hazy.
You bring the call-drink dowry
and make the wedding-for-a-night vows
that you always open with.
We dance,
and I watch your perspiration give me
an outline of what I will see
if our negotiations work.
I look into your eyes
for effect,
and to prove my point.
Take me home.
Rape me to the dance floor beat
before I even make the coffee.
Make our time here forbidden,
make each touch count.
Don't even bother telling me your name.
Look at me lying prone
like it actually might mean something.
Hold me with the force
given to that pull down below.
Let our quick and final gasps
say the things best left in the bottom of the shot glass.
We wake up
as the afternoon begins,
and find our costumes scattered
around the unmade bed.
You bring me apologetic instant tea,
and I call the cab home.
-Brian E. Bengtson
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