She sees my mark too late.
We’re dripping like hives
(hot as thieves). It’s only
seven but we take what we
can muster. I ask if she
comes here often. She’s
pink and red stuff, growing
more concerned as the night
progresses. “I like my work,”
is all she says. I’m in agree-
ment, scamming like the
Gemini I’ve become.
We dance and we
dance. Until I get
a letter from Simon.
“Fucked up and gloriously
scoping.” Stop. “Found
some hot Latin.” “Found
some,” she grins? And
gives the most amazing
blow job, rest assured.
Sure enough it is proven.
Here. And yet again.
It’s the fourteenth of
something in the dead
of winter. The winter
of the gutted book.
The winter of the
sweaty pockets.
