I can’t understand her choices in men.
The harder they hit the more she loves them.
The more disdain
they heap on her family, her history
around town, the harder
it is for her to move
on. She thrives on the stinking sulfuric
breath of a thug,
the way he slaps his way through
The grease-stained leather of
her latest barfly
leaves effluvia like stuck flies
in her living room.
I can’t cut it: her
eyes glance off the bad boys and
to their inner beasts.
Why does she like
the abuse? Why
she need the