• Jimmy Broccoli

The Back of Her Head Looks Like Disneyland

My penis breathes in the hookers

as late afternoon decency changes its business attire

into evening depravity – a masculine shirt and straight-legged jeans

The night whispers water-based lube and tight-fitting condoms

She takes the $50 bill from my hand

“Nobody pays in $50s anymore”, she says


I tip her a twenty – cause I want to see her again

Her drugs ain’t bad and she brings her own pipe

Her name is Rose – and it might be her real name

Her face looks uptown, but she’s in a sleazy leopard print dress

– it’s tight

With lips and legs that cross from one end of the city to the other


The pipe sizzles as the lighter beneath it caresses it with fire

“Your backseat ain’t too bad” – her Jersey accent betraying her

“Where you stayin?”, I ask, while looking away

at a neon red café sign, barely visible from the alley

“You know, I’m here and there.”

“Yeah, I know”, I say


Crisp mid-winter air assaults me, as she opens the car door

With smeared and disheveled lipstick, she smiles at me

“I dig it”, she says

I watch her walk away into the night, fuck-me pumps semi-limping


I turn on the ignition and adjust myself

Making sure to use my signal as I turn right onto the main street

City streetlights exhale, as their glow extinguish into dawn



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