Palpable under the conditions
Of a prostitute’s Day Dream. There’s Miss
Blowing pollen off weeds behind the Red Shed.
Outside it’s snowing. But here she’s courageous enough
To pretend it’s pollen. There’s Miss
Wincing, puckering an orifice as anal penetration
Measures a level of vicissitudes, standard for 50.00.
Reflections of brake-lights gleam over her pale skin.
Inside pockmarks is puss. Used as ink to describe
Imagist poetry. She’s in the backseat of a blue mini-van.
Closing her eyes. There’s the Red Shed. There’s grandma calling:
“Dinner is ready!” A fake orgasm. A spoken lamentation. The backseat glints
With cum-stains. His satisfied crescent tooth is dead silent. But inside the enamel
Of her smile, grandma is calling.