For My New Baltimore Man

A hookers dark green shawl embraces my shoulders where a man's arms might be, his head nesting on my right shoulder, his chin digging into the earth of my middle deltoid, seeking out a depth of six inches as prescribed for fall planting. "You'll see flowers in the spring just after the snow melts," he promises. Have I given up on the outcomes of such swollen vows?

Besides, I'm not thinking of snow. Last winter my vehicle was lodged in an icy snow bank at the alley entrance off Galley Avenue. Two powerfully minded female college students majoring in phys.ed. couldn't budge my bulky Honda CRV. The radio reported the storm as the worst in decades.

"Stop being such a pussy," my ex said, "rock it, don't rev your wheels."
"Will you help me?" I said and reminded him how I swooped in to save him from five more evictions, bringing his personal total to eleven.

He refused. It was too cold, too late; it was too far. "Forget it," I said and called for a tow truck. I'm not bitter. It shrivels up a face and being sixty does not white-out vanity. I figure my stash of years left may cover two and a half decades, and if I'm frugal, maybe more. Meanwhile, I’m trying to settle into this new number, just slide right in easy-like, smooth base to base, but I fucking can’t calm down. Wait. There are moments:

when my cunt yawns and greets me in the morning
when the day ends and my bipolar daughter lies quietly sleeping in the room adjacent to the family room
when I wear my worn olive green t-shirt that parades my tits
when I feel my breasts all full of love and longing
when I remember the colour of Jimmy Bob’s cock and add to that Garth’s spreading balls, not to forget his prick that reminds me of redwoods although I’ve never seen one
when I hear John Gorka singing “The One Who Got Away” and I think of you.