John of 516 Jefferson TowersGot 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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