A bowlegged guy with bloodshot eyes stands two urinals
away in scuffed Frye boots, a black ball cap, a cell phone
tucked between his shoulder and cheek.
It’s 8 a.m. He smells of sweat and whiskey.
So, I’m eating my fries when I realize I fucked
every one of those girls at the table beside me.
He unzips his pants like striking a match,
coughs a laugh, flips the bill of his hat back.
Hey Mike. Stay awake. Call ya back in a sec.
He scoffs, spits up phlegm on a urinal cake.
I piss, glazed eyes fixed on 216-3599
etched in the grout of mint green tiles.
I imagine girls with white tic-tacs cradled in their tongues,
tipped in teeth, never chewed, just sucked and swallowed;
denim skirts in winter, crossed legs and bruised thighs,
Italian dressed salads, plastic forks, paper napkins;
cobalt eye shadow smudged on lids like rainclouds,
small talk puddled in mouths at the brim of glossed lips;
girls who wear a stranger’s skin like a jacket, girls
who pant out of habit and fake it when they come.