by Matthew Pasquarello
This is not the worst
But certainly not the best
The woman smells
Of everything that is not a woman
Of sweat and whiskey
Of gun smoke and gunpowder
Of volcanoes and peer pressure
Of fire and brimstone
Of intelligence and idiocy
Of cigarettes and candy canes
Of adolescence and adulthood,
Senior citizens and death
Of livelihood for every slaughtered cow
Of fish out of water and drowning vermin
Of gangrene and fresh breath,
Rotting flesh from the corpse of all our memories
Of people who don’t care or care way too much
For their own good
Of a being sitting alone near the window
Of lunatics and politicians, ballerinas and city folk
Of wrestlers and hangmen
Of jealousy and forgiveness
Of all of our combined efforts for anything
And everything
Of you, me, us, and them
Of the mailman and the military hero
Of the safari and the tundra
Of heaven and hell
Of ghosts and saints
But out of all she smells like
What difference does it make?
She is still a woman
And this is still a lap dance.