Monday, August 24, 2009

Pulp Poem of the Week

It had been good.
He'd thought he loved her,
and she'd certainly acted
the part of loving him.
It was like getting cut
across the throat
when he found she was laying
not one guy, not even two--
but every beer-faced stud
in the county.
And then coming back to him
with her fine virginal face,
her just-for-you-honey body,
and her church-going, fine, clean
mind that manufactured
all the crazy promises
that had him standing
on his ear night and day.
And he never knew until
that time in a bar,
when a stranger began
bragging to him
about the quick piece
he'd knocked off
that afternoon
in a park
on the edge of town.

Gil Brewer
Little Tramp

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