The Paisley Dress

he stands there in a brown three-piece suit that costs more than my wage, shiny chin pointed like a dagger, teeth a brilliant white. he has a comb in his pocket, and his hair is slicked sideways because who gives a fuck. the cold sores are blooming, three little bastards that decided to grow overnight, red and wet and impossible to hide.

she’s on the platform in a dress that looks like somebody ripped the curtains off a dead grandmother’s house, paisley leaves crawling over it like poison ivy on a corpse. eyes big and stupid-happy, crumbs of Danish stuck to her lips and down in the warm crease of her cleavage, same mullet as his, parted sideways, like twins from some trailer-park womb that nobody talks about.

they’re on the edge of the platform, sucking face like there are no tomorrows.

it starts soft, almost sweet, then the teeth come out, tongues fighting for air, him tasting sugar and coffee and whatever sadness she drank this morning. in his fist, a bunch of dying flowers from the corner Koreans, price tag still hanging like a confession. the Amtrak horn moans somewhere behind them, New York to Boston, another runaway promise.

they keep kissing anyway.

the sores split open, blood mixing with her lipstick, and it feels like the only honest thing in the whole goddamn station.

thirteen-dollar bunch,
wild hedge, bright open poppies,
young lovers smiling.