April Fox

You kissed me once, in a bar
before you played
I drank the whiskey from your breath and
your hand crept up a little higher
than it should have
in such polite and refined
company
and I remembered then
why I don’t drink rum
and why I do

And I watched the cheap girls watching you
painted them in black ink on lined paper-
wasted smiles and infant voices
lead feet, singing bee girl songs
without the tact and grace
they should have packed
in thrift-store satchels
with their tampons and their
hopeful
next-day
underwear

On the drive home we were silent
letting Leonard Cohen speak and in the early morning
January
couldn’t even breathe.