Willie Smith

Buyer Beware

A lull in the film; filler 
between action scenes. 
She leans over in the dark, 
gives to the stud, 
on the creaky seat beside,
skull. 
The guy becomes beside himself. 
To see if this be a dream, 
pinches a nipple. 
Only makes the head bob 
harder, deeper, faster. 
Barely makes out, 
in the gloom, she’s blonde, 
slim, twenty-something. 
The stud – with a wince, a grunt, 
a shiver – comes. 
She, as he’s finishing, sits up, 
frenches the dude, 
tonguing the load past his tonsils. 
Confused, coming off coming, 
losing, as men do, 
interest in the act just done, 
our man shies, tries to spit, 
but she follows the evade 
with grommet mouth. 
“Eat it!” she hisses, 
teeth against teeth, 
her hands flicking the razor, 
plopping the organ into the bag. 
And she’s up the aisle, 
through the stinky lobby, 
out the door, 
into the hard rain of 1^st Avenue; 
her latest – still oozing – 
unmemorable souvenir 
soon flipped into the sewer – 
another bratwurst for the rat, 
the cockroach, and our friend 
and fiend the strobing microbe. 
She ducks into a welfare hotel, 
dizzies upstairs to her room, 
where she continues losing the battle 
to the virus she got doing hardcore, 
hoping to buttress 
her checking account’s 
unprotected balance.