I stubbed my toe on the step of your Winnebago.
My sister says, “He’s a cracker Lothario.”
My mother says, “He’s an egomaniac sans home.”
Darlene says, “Find a Cadillac dude to bone.”
I say, “Geez, Darlene, don’t you think I would
in an inorganic second?
If I could trade in this
sex lair on wheels
for an open-air lovefest machine—
I mean, how could I say anything but yes, yes
if it’d get me out of this shithole relationship
with the ‘RV King’? Don’t I want the smell
of forties off my breath? Chew stains off my dress?
Vinyl imprints off my ass?
My spit’s molasses from Camel Lights.
My eyes are marshmallows after
smoke-fueled nights.
But remember, please:
He’s a mattress steed.
No one likes to be alone, untouched,
a peony passed over by every bee,
untroubled by a single ant, glorious bloom
wasting daily, petals decaying, dropping,
insides rotting top-down until the stalk
falls to the soil. I obsess over death, Darlene.
El Dorado guys are sky pies.
My RV baron is flesh, shit, a smile,
a squeeze on the tit. He’s a man, honey.
He’s a man.”
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