John of 516 Jefferson Towers
Got his number from a dirty bathroom wall
like all the tearoom queens of the world.
The boys who call three in the morning search
for blow jobs like hound dogs in heat.
I stuff tissue paper phone number secure in my back pocket.
He could care less about my personality.
Doesn't give a shit
about candlelight dinners,
long walks on beaches or
the fact that I write poetry.
I tell him I'll be there in ten minutes.
A pocket full of condoms,
a gay porno tape in the front seat of my Ford Ranger.
Curtains closed to apartment 206.
Knock twice, no answer.
Push a note beneath the door
wondering if he has a boyfriend on the side,
if he knows about this sort of thing.
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