My number is lost
in the deepest part of his pocket
where he digs mostly for change.
He would know it by heart
if he had one.
But, I am not
the name tattooed on his arm.
I don't deserve immortality
on the flesh of a man,
or to be remembered
a half hour after he's gone.
He rode off in his daddy's Suburban
in a hurry to wash me off of his mind
at the nearest convenience store.
A six pack to sweeten
the soured kisses we shared
and four-lettered nights.
I will relive the mistake
of ever knowing this
self-absorbed stranger
with the persistent penis
in the blood letting
at the clinic on Brewster and Pine.
****
The cold-faced nurse has me sign
the dotted line. My signature
looks like that of a third grader.
For a moment, I wish
I was in Miss Therber's class again.
The days of Barbie with the D-cup
and Ken who had no penis.
But who knew about penises?
Not me. Not Rebecca Dianne.
The flashback is only an instant.
Elevator music and the crackle
of tissue paper under my ass
brings me around.
"Miss..." She's telling me to scoot
to the edge of the table where
I am exposed to a lamp,
the only warm thing in the room.
A slow sickening fog engulfs my consciousness, but my conscience
will never sleep.
Voices mumble in unison,
in one dark moment
something foreign
extracts the pain
of ever knowing Vincent.
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