usually when you see jokers that look like that, they done something to get like that,
he posits, wisdom outstripping appearances as he leans against the bumper of his ‘84
Scottsdale
his lips, to which crystal methamphetamine is admittedly no stranger, deftly wield a lit
Marlboro Red as a fencer wields an épée
while he variously talks, spits, smokes, and nurses a lukewarm Miller Lite
the tragic object of his pseudotautological assessment, awash in a stew of pathos and
cigarette smoke, approaches a man as he returns from taking a shower and stocking up
on Stacker 2 and food he can microwave in his truck
Miranda, but I can be whoever you want me to be, Daddy,
she oozes, delicately stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette before frugally returning it to
the pack, which she tucks into the concave space between the tops of her asscheeks
and the waistband of her cutoffs
finding her lost LSU shirt the furthest thing from her mind
her just-too-small bra filling in for the Geaux Tigers tee admirably
lilac and lacy where it had not yet begun to deteriorate from wear
gray-brown gossamer where it had
the trucker who asked her name chuckles to himself, indicates a lack of interest, and
disappears into the sleeper cab of his Kenworth for an uneventful night of
Netflix,
porn,
and Easy Mac
shit, Mandy, maybe it just ain’t your night
the so-called parking lot more a field of busted concrete than ordered space
muddy and desperate like many of its occupants
smelling of gasoline, Arby’s, and disappointment
a family man pumps gas into his boring life, trying to hide the fact that he can’t look away
from Miranda-or-whoever-she-is from his wife and two-and-a-half kids
fucking freeloading ingrates,
he mutters to himself but not really
describing his beloved children with all the warmth of someone who has named the tumor
that will ultimately kill him
our ersatz philosopher spits the spent butt into a rain puddle and stomps the empty beer
can flat before flipping it into the truck bed, where it joins scores of its kith and kin, and
climbs inside
he removes the can of Copenhagen from his back pocket, where it has worn a ring into his
jeans, and packs it with a few snaps of the wrist
Gimme Three Steps on the radio as the engine revs, a grin spreads across his face
Lord it don’t get no better than this
Comments