Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry

Outside Disney World

by Lafayette Wattles

Outside Disney World

we stayed in that hard-knock resort,
the one that had no running water,
only a pool with dark marks on the side,
as if someone had been bludgeoned to death,
before they filled it,
back when they did have water
(and maybe that's why he'd been bumped off,
stealing the last of it),
and the sun was so hot it burned
even after it had gone
halfway into tomorrow.

I snuck outside to smoke weed
with a girl I met getting ice
and she gave me herself and I gave her me,
the parts we were willing to part with
to get some of each other,
down by the pool, that
see-you moon watching,
her back on the grass,
breasts glistening silver
each time I'd lift my shoulders,
thrust my hips,
and we smoked again, after,
listened to that couple
howl like wild dogs, caught
them on the balcony, the place had a balcony,
and the man had the woman
right up to the edge,
or she had him, I couldn't tell
because, just as I inhaled deep,
let the smoke in,
I saw the faces, couldn't breathe,

and she thought I'd lied
about my age, ran off
into the dark with her name.

I didn't sleep that night, couldn't
get it out of my head,
couldn't look at them
the rest of the week,
even on that long drive home.


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