Nem pomes? She asked.
Nem. Pomes? I see that one page only has five lines on it.
Yeah, poems, he said as she, beside him, flipped through a magazine
Tearing out coupons.
He let his gaze lift from the page-beyond Kleinzahler to the
Cracked plaster ceiling, where dust would work loose
When trains rumbled by.
This was untenable, he thought, squeezing his eyes tight.
He had to make a move.
If he could sober up for a week, maybe, he could figure things out.
Then, to his right, was her breast again;
Firm and round as an orange, jiggling only slightly as she flipped pages.
He lifted to see the other one-as happy and round as this one.
What? she asked.
Nothing, he said laying his head back down.
It was her house after all.
And her beer which she buys and doesn’t drink.
Wine on the weekends.
And he was, through no fault of his own,
Between paying gigs.
He put the book aside and rolled into her, mouth open
Like a blind bear cub.
She folded the magazine to hold in her right hand
And guided him home with her left.
He cupped his mouth over her tightening nipple.
Suddenly, things were tenable again.