by Will Russo
Bike, lake, fake it with a smoker,
a man who'd lick toes on a park bench.
Tim? I crept awake, slapstick to a mouth that stunk,
quit but started again, load negotiated
to the highest bidder. Wanted nearer,
skinnier—at least one muscle—I slow screwed
and spent an ultimatum asleep this side
a pound of vein. Before you'd even opened
your eyes I'd snuck back. Fucker. Over quick,
buck and shift, slipping one-two-three in the bare.
And I still couldn't pick him from a crowd.
______
Will Russo is the author of two chapbooks: Dreamsoak (Querencia Press, 2023) and Glass Manifesto, winner of the 2023 Rick Campbell Chapbook Award from Anhinga Press. He is poetry reviews editor at Another Chicago Magazine and received his MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Find him at willrusso.com.
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