Anatomy of a Dress

With two types of beer mingling in the plastic cups. Dirty.
Like king, like two at a time. We were made to be polite.
At the beer garden, under the ospreys, with good teeth.

…The hips gone at it down in the gravel.
A handful. Also wanted the roadster. Wanted to be off-road
with racing stripes, anywhere other than Brooklyn or Queens.
Wanted to chase you down on the sand with a pint of something
sweet brown between us.

To tug you around by the collar of your white T Shirt. Pin you against
the wall in the bathroom, familiar, littoral. To hold red lipstick very,
very close to your cheek and say I’m sorry. Wanted both of us
to have bigger tits and an easier time of it. To be drunk enough to believe
a beach and come out in swimsuits, with hula hoops, flashing our hands.

…Increased police presence was only making it worse. Still unused
to the megaphoned voices reordering the street, still unused
to the monomania of blue disco. Rather, pull the blinds.
Exacerbated a portion of liquor with a portion of raw onion. A mistake
in the sequence of alt, slick, luck.

And the boatman was not friendly.

Danielle Pafunda