contours on counters

She bears a toxic smile,
neon pink.
So bright, it lures mosquitoes;
So pretty, it is worn to the prom,
tied to the bed posts,
and discarded like dirty pennies
into a tip jar.

She sells me something sweet—
nearly every morning.
Even when I do not buy anything,
I still go away with her smile,
though it is nearly a snarl by then.

On her upper arm is a purple
and aqua green mermaid—
the outline of a tattoo,
which I wish to tell her not to fill in.
Contours are much sexier
when left hinting the substance
beneath skin.

My soul has stretch marks,
ever since we met;
Deep purple juices that fill in white
like sugars of a yam.
I guess that means we can fuck now—
like root beer, flat from being frozen—
on a flat wooden popsicle stick
that tastes like the assembly line
from which it was cut.

To me, she is the virtuous sandwich maker,
selling cinnamon stickiness
in exchange for the filthy paper stuffed inside my jeans.
To her, I am the black wool coat–
politely folding her inside my naked sleeves,
as I slam two dollars on the counter,

written on 02/08/2010 by: Matt Kane