Green Linden Press

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He spends a long weekend in a rented studio apartment 
above a garage some good ol’ boy has converted into a bar, 
the lubricated dream of any man who’s ever 
called himself “the panty dropper” and meant it. 

He’s staying with a woman twice his age, 
a self-identified witch and Stevie Nicks worshipper,
whose side hustle is reading Tarot to fund her online jewelry store. 
For three days, she’s fucked him whenever he asks 
but never lets him come. Grinding in time 
to a soundtrack of Chug! chants and Dave Matthews sing-alongs
barely muted through the studio’s floor, she punches 
his chest whenever she feels his hips 
start to tighten. His begging has no effect.

The night before he has to leave, he’s out back smoking.
A truckful of regulars pulls up, and the driver yells out what the whole bar 
must’ve been wondering: Gettin’ it this weekend!?  
When he, instinctively, lids his eyes and nods with purpose 
he’s peppered by hoots of approval,
absolved from more explanation. 
On the drive home the next day he counts down each state
in the way of him taking his belt off.

But once he’s finally in the door and closing his eyes
he sees only that driver’s stained smile like the dirty seam 
on a neighborhood baseball, the way his Wellies
made him slightly bowlegged, and the vein of grease that spanned
a sleeveless arm as he reached up and tipped his hat at him. 
He hears the laughter they shared, and when he’s finished he’s satisfied 
that he never lied about getting it to begin with. 
Not even through omission.