Pinch Hitter – Kristin Garth

I take you home with me, say, “Open up

that mouth.” They say I have a pretty cock — 

rich girls with educated lips, cheeks made of

tan angles, sharp, I’ve decorated, shocked 

hot pink — not plump, pale, freckled, sad, like you.

Dead bar, marred car, I settle.  Focus on

the pointy tits — near dead doe eyes, cartoon

blackholes, lifeless midnight caverns.  Dawn,

excavated deep, drive you silent, to

retrieve a car.  Still drunk, spelunked, won’t ask 

about the “liar” keyed across my blue 

Mercedes hood.  Another task 

you swallow for ten minutes in this game.

Pinch hitters know their place — assign no blame.