Saturday, June 13, 2015

Waiting

She crossed her legs at the ankles and waited,
like real ladies do, for the respectful approach,
the formal request, the Fred Astaire glide that slides
toward the Gene Kelly bounce before jitterbugging
its way into children, white picket fences,
and the quiet endurance of the times.

She crossed her legs at the ankles and waited
for Amen, bouncing slightly at the knees
with head bowed low, squeezing the pew
in front of her, more afraid of the step-father
beside her than the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
upon whose sacred ground she now began to pee.

She crossed her legs at the ankles and waited
for the first leer to trace the long black seam
of her well-run fishnets, the first free drink
of the night, the first dizzy rush, the first last call,
and the first moment she can’t remember
any more of any of it.



Literary Orphans - Issue 19

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