Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Alan Catlin- A Poem

Strangers on a Train

The years were not being
kind to her at the holiday
office party, a decade or
two removed from brash
waitress days, bragging of
taking a gap year on her
back with a Euro Pass to
sample all the dicks on
the continent.  Apparently,
none of them stood out
from the others or were
distinguished enough to
hang around, judging by
the way all the seven year
itch men were sniffing around
her as if she were the only
strange, warm pussy in town
they could ever hope to get
close to.  The thought was:
to broach the subject of how
did her dick sampling gap
year go or to let the subject go
altogether allowing both of us
to pretend we’d never worked
the same shift, that she was still
the same hot babe who smoked
and talked like a stevedore,
drank like an ironworker and
fucked like a pay-as-you-go
gigolo. That the first evidence
of drinker’s bloat hadn’t begun
to stretch her skin and all the chain
smoked butts hadn’t but a vat of
whiskey in her voice.  

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