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Self Indulgence


Defendant, only.
Restraining order – check!
He’s got ten years, four counties on record
with future dockets and dates.

He comes on strong, looks at me
and I can tell, I’m his type-
by the way he stares at me, or how he
won’t let me have a conversation elsewhere,
The forward manner in the way he
moves his bar stool closer and dominates,
forces charmingly and gives me his number
so he can message me 0
every night, vaguely enough not to be disrespectful,
but just desperate enough to know - I am lonely.

Married, if not, nearly, two children.

Offers me a way to move in, low rent,
Maybe.

Swallows whiskey from the bottle,
chases it with coke.
Hands it over to me, gentlemanly,

Hands down, twiddling fingers,
the drunk dial pay off – he walks
downstairs.  Forgets
his phone, comes back and goes.

Work wake up and return the next day,
I can hear the rumble of his engine,
as it leaves, comes back, and leaves again.
Lights on, blinds slit open, parked truck,
I think – slut.

Wife.
Kids.
Assault Records.
That’s love!

What would I know of such things?



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