the werewolf

Oct 4

An afternoon down Bull street

walking home with Baby Face

I notice a werewolf

outside the salon

with the woman who cuts

hair and thinks

“that turned out better than I expected.”

I criticize a business in passing, a day spa called

Narcissus, stepping on Baby Face’s anecdote

about the ironic genesis of doilies.

Tight White Jeans and Gilded Michael Kors Watch

ahead of me shoves a pink, crumpled call for entry into

everyone’s favorite Longchamp

and walks so stiffly

that Baby Face and I must conclude

she orgasms only

clitorally

and in 1200 thread count.

I think about assholes

with Picasso doodles tattooed on their inner arms

with their full wallets and satiable libidos

and slap them against what ever the fuck I am

(a wrinkle, an insult, an angel)

and hate us.

& outside Foxy, the werewolf

is smoking the American spirit,

nursing an affogato

his hair is perfect.

gasp poem