dusty villa and a few cans of beer

by Noah Uitermark

slow night in the desert,
bar man politely excuses himself
to throw up pure liquor
after a night before,
some other story
long forgotten
and thrown away.

a quiet glowing night,
the lap girl itches her blue
crotch
and there’s no one around
the stage.

the music plays on, and
everyone realizes that no one really
likes these songs.

it’s a slow night, they suck
from their bottles and cans
and the girls wiggle impatiently
in their tight tight
pants
and the underwear throbbing
their crotch.

the television plays scrambled,
the strip from the comics
hangs helplessly on the wall,
and the jukebox rests
untouched.

they all wanted us to be happy,
really,
but now we’re here
and this dusty villa had grown on us.

beercans line the coffee tables by our
feet and the taste of bad cigarettes
have somehow grown on us.

the sun goes down behind a veil
of horizon blue,

the conversation is light and sparse,
full and absent
of meaning,

and the parting paths are taken.

it’s a slow night in this villa, a night
like any other month and all the
other years.

the lap girls get up to stretch and
the crowd, craving their love,
orders one more round

we just don’t know

what else to do.