GORSTOM'S TURN.

[dadio]

Gorstom brushes the flecks off his
Blue jeans with the flick of his fingers.
He drags on the cigar his father gave.
Bitterness hangs on his tongue. Some
Of the whores in the sex joint were old
Enough to be his mother, some as young
As his sister though not as pretty. He sits
Waiting his turn, eyeing the joint, taking
In the gaudy wallpaper, the lowered blinds,
The dull paintings on the walls. Another sits
On a chair down the room, some drunk,
Gazing at the ceiling, mouthing words,
Saying nothing. The last whore he’d seen,
Some plump bitch, moments back, seemed
Jaded, gave him a stare like his mother gave
If he’d stepped out of line. He exhales smoke
From the cigar, watches it rise in blue rings.
His father taught him that, as he taught
Him most else, horse riding, fishing, to skin
A rabbit, to drink. A door opens and a whore
Shows, beckons the guy in, closes the door.
Gorstom didn’t fancy fucking her; just as well
The other guy got her, wasn’t his day, Gorstom
Mutters, the poor shit, coming first. He sits
Back, inhales deep, remembers the time he
Saw his father in the barn with that Jones chick
From across the way. He’d been up in the hay
With his sister looking down. They sat in silence
Shocked, but intrigued, as their father undressed
The girl and fucked her sweet. Gorstom frowns
And exhales. His sister never quite got over that
Vision, but she kept quiet, never said a word,
Never told her mother, not even her quack mind
Doctor years later. A door opens and a whore
Stands giving him the wink and smile and beckons
Him in. He stubs out his cigar, pushes through the grey
Blue smoke, follows her, her ass wide as a cow’s, no joke.

[the mingo]

[dadio]