her favorite name for me
is "cunt,"
which she spits out
at an alarming frequency
the tone depends on
whether or not she's been laid
and i've been paid
today she's loaded
to the hilt
with cheap wine:
her last fuck
runs the local liquor store
and is always short on cash
"cunt!" she calls,
preening from her porch,
swinging her payment-bottle
like she's going to pitch it
i've learned to ignore her
most days
and today was not a day
for ignoring bethany
so i pull out my ace,
my favorite sugar-sweet reply:
"well, you'd know what one looks like,
wouldn't you, love?"
this makes her flush
beneath those layers
of powdered-on chinabone skin,
turning her an odd shade
of alcohol-soaked anger
not because she likes women, oh no
bethany's convinced
she's a lesbian
but she sicks up her breakfast
every time a pretty girl-thing
slinks into her room
spends most of her working time
in the bathroom,
reapplying lipstick and stalling
she doesn't get many
repeat customers
can't imagine why
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