I stick my toes into the flaccid skin
collected on the floor, as he tells me
that he’s going to construct me a wooden bra
and that cunning smile of mine
creeps across my face.
The headlights on the shitty asphalt,
of the pleasantly named subdivision streets,
illuminate the features of that thing they call a canine.
He asks me what is on my mind,
which always presses
for something that isn’t pessimistic.
She shows her teeth to the stench of foot odor,
and I tell him,
‘Her mouth looks like
    a vagina.’