Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 Poetry |

The Ex

In trailer parks in laundromats in the smoke and mirrors of trying to raise a kid and dance her topless way through business school at Don Juan's, Pop-a-Tops The Houston Inn, the years like disremembered years she might indeed have spent in prison, blur by outlived until she somehow graduates finds a decent job for once then buys the run-down house across the street—where now shuffling back and forth or stumbling, in her moonlit gravel driveway, a tall bare-chested skinny guy scribbled hieroglyphically over with homemade hearts daggers, drops of blood is shouting, beer in hand that all he wants goddamnit is to see his kid again. . . but here come the cops just like in the old days with their blinding lights and handcuffs instead. Now they'll want to talk to her too, they'll want to know everything, the whole story and then, God help us Jesus the kid will want to know. . . But first, there's the next few minutes to

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