The queen across the street fucks me
like it’s 1999. The curve of her crown
glints in the light as she guns for my
cunt. It makes me laugh before I come.
She grins, her lips glistening with gluttony.
I stroke her hair and I say, ‘You are a queen.’
Her eyes fall up to happy little half-moon slits.
Then I say, ‘You are a queen on her knees,’ and
her eyes close over the darkness. She slips her
finger out of me and fumbles for a cigarette.
She is dirty; she didn’t wash her hands. I smile.
She is smoking me. When she looks up I see that
her mouth is sad, not angry, so I get angry for her
and then I think,
I wish I’d come all over that goddamn crown.