Jane Flett
porkies strip bar, 4 am
George tells us about playing Scrabble with his mother
as a salt-and-vinegar blonde
offers surround sound views
of knees, ankles, breasts.They have a navy bound book to record their scores,
though if they get less than 800, they don’t bother.Crotches waft by, naked, hairless, innocuous as collarbones.
Whisky is spilt.George would like to buy me a lapdance and watch.
Tangle knuckleless fingers through his fly,
fumbling wet thoughts of
triple word scores.
