Not good enough, not teeth enough, for Riverview,
he rolls into town under the shoulders of night with
his sleazed and pimpled caravan. Taught to screech
inwardly at his filth, we nevertheless find ourselves
drawn to his gray devastation of grin, the sneaky way
stories map themselves onto the backs of his hands.
Girls, giddy in the throes of repulsion, can’t help
visioning him as a blazing and wordless fuck, skin
sandy, grating, the mud of his open mouth sliding all
over us. His snake-lidded eyes know how we resent
balance. In line, steamed and bewildered, we consider
his bitter knowledge of levers and gears, listen to
muttered instructions on all the best ways not to die.
And admit it now, little girl. With spit and the heel
of a hand, you seek to be wildly industrious. You
want to clean off a place on his body, find a patch
of landscape the sun has not quite killed, and you
want to wallow in the dirt denied you by Mama,
screaming into the blue of freefall, riding the natural
stink off that boy. And you got your head thrown back.