Little Darlings by Peter Kent

Vodka shots and another decade
of fumbling chastity saved me. She
was right there, tight black nylon
holding her breasts while she smoked.
A circle of neon haloed her face. How
I wanted some heaven in the form
of fingers touching my shoulders . . .
an angel admiring how strong
my arms still seem. She glanced my way
as I blushed and stepped past
a slush of vomit on the sidewalk.
Ugliness fed like a crippled crow
at what remained of my libido. Like
the last romantic knight errant I strode on
toward the rented bed of fantasy. Unsoiled
by the disingenuous lust she wanted
to uncover . . . my fat wallet secure
on the dresser . . . I slept
among the armless pillows
that console the virtuous man.

Leave a Reply