this town’s full of you
and men like you
belly-flopping their way
to the next cotillion
the next cotton gin
you’ve got a bottle in your robe
a battle up your sleeve
your belt’s bigger than you are
so are the fisticuffs
the brass bands
this dilapidated desert
you wear
your face reddens
and suddenly,
there are no more secrets
it’s dukes up
a fine on Monday morning
it’ll be fine on Monday, you say
talking about your wife and son
I examine your marks
naked
you say
don’t look, please