In Pursuit of Soles

I still remember the Friday nights when I’d leave the bar early

With Jennifer at my side and two frothy mugs full of Pabst in the trunk of my van

And we’d ride out to the Motel Inn, where I’d remove her thick black boots after a squeak of approval

And pour the Pabst on her slim, delicate soles

The liquid would massage her slight blisters and give a special shine to the ring around the littlest of her five rouged and unfortunately whorish teenage offspring, who I tended to support as if I were a belated yet discreet stepfather

And then, I’d lap up the juice on her flesh like a dog on a dish of water

And get delightfully drunk on every one of the snarky juvenile delinquents

But later, the squeaks of her boots became angry and unwelcoming

And she stormed off with a light man who preferred Heineken

So now, I prowl about town with the taste of her soles still fresh in my mind

Like a blind dog in pursuit of the moon, I howl out odes to her precious memory, often becoming entrapped in the clutches of a shallow lamp in the damper sectors of the Motel Inn

Light-years away from my Jennifer.


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