Unhoused Woman Encounters Micropenis Energy Outside the Golden Nugget

The sun has yet to set and

here you are, slurring your words.

Your girlfriend is too, but

she is savvy enough

to distance herself from you.

She paces half a block away,

sweaty, arms crossed.

She wanders near and calls

your name, Tad. Why don’t you

leave her be, Tad? Sleep it off,

Tad. Let’s bang it out, Tad.

(Better yet, don’t, Tad.) What

daggers did this dirty-faced,

tattered-trousered grandmother

sling, that sliced you so, Tad?

Was it her cabbage-scented

perfume which seduced you

to bray—swine-like—into

the cheeks of this “Fucking Hag”?

You tower above her, your

fatback moist, your jowls pink

from lack of air to your

middling brain, veins in your neck

and hamhocks bulging. Did she

take your last twenty bucks at

the Blackjack table? Did she

refill all your empties

at the casino bar? Did she

run away with the butcher

when you were six? (And what if

she did? If your dad was

the bore that you are, Tad, I

would too.) And what’s wrong with

these passers-by, who just pass by

you, casting their gaze aside—

myself included?