Mortal Shower
I met my butt in a Pittsburgh
hotel room. My face
still looks like my face
but not my butt, my hair
no longer resembles an ad
for Jell-O pudding, people thought
it was chocolate pudding for years,
so thick
and rich. There was fog
in the bathroom and then not fog,
I faced my face
and then not my face, the mirror
staring at my ass
winked at the mirror
staring at my face
and the future was defined
as an effort
to use the word sag in my resume.
Have sagged, will
sag, am looking for a position
in which to maximize my sagging
potential. I once cared
what went on back there, about
the extent of grip and rise, just
as some birds crave
the reddest plumage, and I propositioned
mirrors, watched women’s eyes
follow, turned in shop windows
to see if my pants
fit their purpose. Then love
and car payments, love and the sofa
needs to be moved, love and her grandmother
dies, my grandmother
dies, love
and she comes home and I’m thrilled
by her coat and voice
and the brown habit of her eyes. She
likes my ass and lies
about its travels, how it’s lost
focus, and there are wattles
to come, please God
if dentures
[...] Read more
poem by Bob Hicok
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