The Going Rate

I’m going through old poems and editing them since I have so little time (or energy) to write these days. I think this poem appeared on this blog at some point.

The Going Rate

She was dog-ass drunk when he asked her,
“What’s the going rate for damsels
in distress these days?” and slid closer
“Not a lot,” she said, eyeing him. Not too bad,
probably even better with the lights off.

She wobbled off her bar stool, grinning,
remembering when she was younger, hoping
for more than one AM nights and a double
vision Prince Charming, his horse a weary
Dodge pick-up, barely street-legal.

They meandered to a Haggard tune,
kissed and groped in the dim wattage
that eventually bled into night.
She greeted the morning with a black eye
and he, late for work, drank breakfast.

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