Quintin Collins

Crushed

Toine has a new stereo. Mystikal grumbles
“Shake ya ass, but watch yo self. Shake ya ass”
into the street. A squirrel
crushed by a car, baking on the pavement—

you have a stick in hand to prod
the roadkill, but Chris passes grayscale porn
printouts, hot sauce stained.
You can’t see much because of the folds

in the sheets, the ink bled. Like the squirrel
flattened, spread, naked women displayed. You reduce
to a throb in your jeans.
Cynthia with the lazy eye rolls

up on her bike. Swishing her hips slow
as you all scramble to hide the pictures,
she tells you to turn up the music
so she can dance.

The song ends. She sits next to you.
You eye buttonholes
in her shirt, snaggletooth
behind glossed lips, slide closer.

She hooks an arm around Toine’s neck,
slips into his lap.

You stare at the squirrel, this mangled thing
you want to poke with a stick.

 

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