Where the hell is my jack and coke?
She foams to life like the head on a tall glass
of PBR--hard to swallow, but I try.
How not to love every damn thing about her?
I click off the 13-inch black and white,
crush a cigarette between my fingers,
limp over and kiss her like I invented it.
A little string hangs. She hates when I do that,
so I do (makes me feel even).
Her mouth wet with brandy (her potion, my poison)
spits: Go to hell!
She stands, flips her long hair, twirls and swings
down the hall. Gossamer blouse, sloppy bra,
coquette thighs in denim ...
What a burn.
Well, I may not be quick or bellicose,
or smell like "myrrh," but I can bend nails when
on fire, and I'm ready to thunder when she calls.
John Bush teaches English in Georgia. He is Associate Director at the Words Work Network, a project at Web Del Sol. He is also the Director of Split Shot: A Journal of Literary Art and the former Chairperson for The Young Georgia Writers and the Writing in the Schools programs in Georgia. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Conspire, 2River View, Disquieting Muses, The Best of Pif off-line, The Paumanok Review, Story South, and Thunder Sandwich, among others.