The true hustler had yet to be conceived, though his forebears,
lumbering freight trains, unlikely to couple, would find a way
to exert their will. Move in tight on that tight urethra.
Planning an accident, are we? You’ll want the full insurance.
Elsewhere: the mess I made was to be nobody’s boy.
One too many slow grooves with Aretha; one too many
pony kegs, and I’d have slipped it up with Joanie.
Fortunate: Jaws at the drive-in. Splattered sun visor.
Later some slick kid’s mitts did rummage my drawers.
He had come for the shag. He tried to stay for the swag.
Tonight, I’m packing exuviated clothes in a FedEx box
like the stillborn infant his parents should have received
in time to save us all the grief of his living. And yes,
I too was a bastard. Doesn’t mean nobody gets slapped.