My Poetry

One in the Morning (A Ghazal)

One in the Morning.


One hundred dollars to be loved for

one hour by a woman named Beloved.


The volume on the rental car radio is

turned all the way down to one as you


and her wrinkle the leather in the

backseat with your naked, dry flesh. One


time when you were a boy playing in front

of the tv, dad said the heart of a hooker is one


tough nut to crack, but this one wears her

heart on her sleeve and wears your wedding


ring during sex. One ring, twenty-five layers

of dead skin burned deep into it like a greasy


tattoo. One day you will swallow that ring like

a flame and the marriage that came with it.


Thirty minutes left and one moist, manicured

hand is wrapped around your tie squeezing on


your neck and one hand is in a warm place your

wife doesn’t touch anymore unless it’s your


anniversary. With just one minute of the

hour left your lifeless sperm fills her hand.


The low radio hums and no one in the car

says anything. Your sweat and exhaustion


seeps into the seats. One cigarette heats up

the chilly back seat as you re-dress. She


stays for one song after the hour. Your

wedding song comes on and you realize


that at one time you and your wife fucked

like this.

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