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

1957