Sarah Freligh - "Foreign Affairs"

In every, ballpark, a pair of girls in halter-tops
breasts displayed like fruit on a tray; tan, spandex skin,
hair a guy could lose himself in. Boonie flips
him for the blond, tails Al gets the brunette. Nothing
to write home about but okay for a night.
He buys her some kind of rum drink, five shots
of booze and juice, topped by a little red kite.
He sips a beer and tries not to stare at her tits
while she tells him she once saw Nolan Ryan
down to the Shell station pumping his own
gas, smaller than he looks on TV. Al practices when
and how he'll say he loves her. Tossed like a bone
to a dog or coins at a tollbooth. The arm lifts, you're in.
This highway's crowded. A gridlock of women.


Sort of Gone