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
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.”