In her leggings,
and her striped
Cape Cod dress,
we meet Kim.
She’s in possession
of ankles the circumference
of Kennedy half-dollars,
a wasp’s nest of black curls
piled on her head,
she’s a straight line
from shoulder to heel.
She’s a real catch, Kim is,
and she knows it.
She has no idea that
she looks like a peacock
dipped in motor oil,
she’s giving ol’ Josh
the goldfish eye.
We’re all here to see The Freight Train,
The Rabbit Killer, but Kim’s hoping
for more.
Kim’s looking to get her
bunny stuffed, she
don’t care much about who
does the stuffing,
but she’s hoping for Mr. Clark,
he’s her mark, no doubt.
Now, Josh bought Kim
a beer, but was asked to
leave the cap on,
He looks at me, confused.
“It’s so you can’t Rufie her.
She wants to *******, but
she wants it to be her idea.”
Josh nods;
so does Kim.
As the evening proceeds,
and we’ve all done
“The Freight Train Boogie”
it’s become increasingly
obvious to Kim that Josh
is not agreeable to buttering
her biscuits, she moves,
which is to say stumbles,
around the room.
Every so often she’ll climb onto
the lap of some guy she’s known,
biblically or otherwise, before.
Sam, Bob, Steve, Ralph, or Charlie,
it hardly matters.
Earlier, she’d told us about
the 6-year-old twins,
the teenaged daughter
at home, ex-husband,
boyfriend, whatever, in jail.
The Freight Train moves ever
onward, but I’ve seen too
much of ol’ Kimmy’s show,
now depressed, it’s time
to bail.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
There is a band, locally, that is called Freight Train Rabbit Killer. They are astounding. The first time Josh and I saw them, we left the venue and vowed to see them play as often as we were able. This poem is set in a tavern that housed the second time that I’d been able to see them play live. Sadly, both Josh and I left early this time around. Kim’s dealings with Josh and some of the other guys in the audience was pretty intense and really hollowing. I hope she finds what she’s looking for.