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MAY 2009 |
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No Means Water Balloon
It’s summer and Dawn is single and when the wind gusts it flips up her skirt. We’re on hands and knees side by
side on the tarpaper looking down at the street. It’s dark but the balloons are pink and orange so we can see
them flicker translucent when they catch falling through the lamplight. More gusts and I keep looking back at
her long legs exposed, hair on the belly of her thighs where she doesn’t shave. She laughs sweet and scratchy, a
clove smoker, as a pink bomb sprays rivulets of H20 in front of a three-legged dog walking a man with a fedora.
The dog woofs. The man shakes his fist and Dawn covers her mouth with pink palms. Another gust and her skirt pops
up like a hood and I see the red thong that splits her pale cheeks and I reach out to touch it. A familiar slap
across my face and an orange water balloon shatters on my head. The rejection I can take but the water drives me
crazy. Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Western Massachusetts. Read more at his website, eddiesocko.blogspot.com. |
