On the way home I met a whore,
the kind who strips while father cuts the turkey,
the kind who excuses herself from the table.
Perfect hair in ten minutes is impossible, the whore tells me,
but that’s plenty for the perfect orgasm.
The whore lets me in on her daily regimen:
Vitamins, a protein shake.
She tells me that fucking is the closest thing
she’s ever experienced to death.
Finer moments, expensive meals, the collapse of a nation.
I’m concerned with nothing but my hand clenching a woman’s neck,
my hand on the whore’s inner thigh.
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