The sallow cowboy
asks you to dance so you
put the limes down &
accept. Flat in his
arms, tracing the
baseboards, faces leering
around you with beer
bottle noses & hands
made of foam. The room
queers quickly, blending,
then spirals, & the cowboy’s
hand on your back is a knob,
a way to open you up, & out.
Blinking, you focus on
the deep lines on his face,
ravines you could walk into,
dry up in. He wears a
plaid shirt & he’s sweaty
& other men look at him
with an uptilt to their eyes
so you tilt your eyes up too.
You suddenly know
you’ll go in his mint green
Ford & let his thumbs
circle your blue-veined
nipples & as he’s
closing his eyes against
yours all you’ll think of
is the hole in the fence
outside your bedroom
window, what’s coming
through, how it’s
scratching.