when the songs you sing
have someone else’s lovebites on them
you are flush, burning:
though not from passion,
but embarrassment.
this here whores den
you rail against,
frequent.
not only as a customer
but as proprietor
you write the checks
your saddle sore
ass
can’t cash.
moseying down
poking ‘round
back stair
fire escape.
hell,
throes of passion
deep breaths
lying
in the bed you’ve made.
you sleep the sleep
of death.
you know your guilt.