Pinch Hitter – Kristin Garth
October 30, 2018
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.