This poem was originally incarnated (enpaperated?) as a short, innocuous thing. Then I got into a bitchtastic mood today and pretty much rewrote it into this. Liking the rhythm & snarkiness of it, personally. What do you think?
To the Guy at the End of the Bar
look at me
look at how hot I am
sitting here
like a big plate of YES
with my legs crossed
and my eyes narrowed
in my black skirt
and my good bra
look at me
sitting here
on this fake-leather stool
tracing your name in the air
with my sharp high heel
sitting here
waiting for you
to smooth your cowlick down
to brush off your shirt
to forget how the last woman
sent you slinking back
to your piss-warm beer
and your fish-cold wife
look at me sitting here
looking just like you fear
your daughter will look
looking at you the way you fear
your daughter will look
at that guy at the end of the bar
look at me
1 comment:
i. love. this.
:-)
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