Slumlord

Take off your tee-shirt.
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.

Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.

There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.

They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.

Charles Cicirella
1/17/15