Bent, or Bend, Oregon
Malcontent on the mind,
like Princess Whatever-Whatever
chewing on a purple lettuce leaf
on the first morning of spring
even though the rain still clung
like a curtain to the hood of her jacket.

When you look to her
she is clumsy, bending
forward, shirtless, braless,
breasts hang like water balloons
being clutched from soft hands
on a rooftop -

in the back of your mind
you image your fingers kneading
her skin, or just the smell
of that same self appointed
rain shower, shoeless
and mute on the lawn,

in anticipation that she might
crawl over to you in the night,
sit astride you, please
you, or just feel that tightness
in your groin again.

You think yourself a coward,
miss the weather farther North,
detest the polka dots of her underwear,
the dot-org-ness of it all, the this,
the that, the here-here, the sense
that all birthday candles have blown
out and you are ageless, with your mouth
on hers, or just your salty tongue on the window
glass – praying for anything that might remind
you of something else.

You touch her face;
bend fingers into palms
replace yourself with disgrace.