The Paisley Dress

He stands there in a brown three-piece suit that costs more than my wage, shiny chin pointed like a dagger nobody asked for, teeth a brilliant white, the kind dentists jerk off to, comb in the pocket, hair mullet slicked sideways because who gives a fuck anymore.

the cold sores are blooming, three little bastards on his lip decided to grow overnight, red and wet like some cheap whore’s mouth after a bad night.

she’s on the platform, waiting 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 tits, maybe down in that warm crease of her cleavage, same mullet as his, parted sideways, like twins from some trailer-park womb nobody talks about.

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

starts soft, almost sweet, then 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.