Last Call

Paul presses the tart O of his kiss
against a soft cheek
then recoils from the sharp slap
that raises a welt upon his face.

His tongue tastes the smoke
released from her resentment.
A flame flashes as his hand
refuses to let go her shirt sleeve.

He starts to pull her back
for round two with better aim,
but a low blow crumples his
bloated beer body.

Paul feels lumber hands
heft him as easy as an axe.
The door opens to neon, the moon,
the toss, the skid on icy concrete.

Immediate couples skirt
his sidewalk bruising
and brush against a blue Ford
as they retreat to the nearest home.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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