Fred Aiken Writing

I wonder what sort of whore I would be,

          you know,

if I could get into that sort of thing.

perhaps I would get into fights

         with other prostitutes,

         and wake up in a strange bed almost every night.

or maybe it’s like every other 9-to-5,

         and I’d clock in,

         then clock out,

                    you know,

whenever I finished whoring.

though I’m certain I wouldn’t have many

         repeat customers,

         though I’m told that’s not a huge deal.

fancy cellulite flopping in syncopated rhythms,

as we try to find an orgasm in a void,

despite no maps,

trails leading the way,

or clues as to what I’m doing,

what either of us are doing is a mystery

that not even Scooby and the gang could decipher,

yet we muscle through it,

touching,

sweating,

bodies counting each other’s molecules for lice

sitting far below the surface,

under a needle prick,

we find a way to become transcendently naked,

as life postpones itself in a circular motion,

and we heave,

and we hoe,

down through a mystic grove,

until we reach it,

until we grab for it,

until we make it up and call it a day,

wait,

is that your cat?

why is she looking at me like that?