Dying Softly

Buying bicycles, my boyfriend

and I stood

in line.  From the next isle over,

a white-trash, rotted teeth, camouflage-

fishing-hat wearing man says,

                “Hey, dude, what time’s

                the game tonight?”

Momentarily unaware of his intention,

I mutter “I have no idea.”

With his laughter, realization and anger

at myself for not saying:

                “Nice teeth.”

                “Are you hitting on me?”

                “Nascar was this morning.”

                “I don’t know. When’s the trash

                pick up?”

                But instead

standing in silent surrender

and letting another scar be added

to the thick skin of my back.

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This entry was posted on April 10, 2014 by in Poetry, Serial Addiction -- Your Weekly Read and tagged , , , .

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