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Poem 93: Sex With The Dry Cleaner

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Sex With The Dry Cleaner


I can’t keep my clothes on, or dirty language in my head.

I went off with the greengrocer last night.

At his home we went right to bed

and he commented I wasn’t very tight.


I didn’t want to tell him I was a slut

borderlining on a prostitute.

I need to get out of this rut

before there’s evidence I can’t refute.


I know I’m at risk of a gruesome rape

or murder that leaves me dead in a ditch.

The last guy bound my hands with tape

and when I said no, he just called me a bitch.


I fucked the doctor that tested me for STDs.

I fucked my professor.

I think my parents are praying “Please

no!” I think they saw the picture on my dresser


of me and the soccer dad across the road.

There are others of me with other men.

If I don’t have sex I feel ugly as a toad.

But if I get AIDS, what then?


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