A.D. Carswell: The King and I

You got me all shook up, baby
he says, leaning resplendent in sex and rhinestones
against a fastidiously clean countertop, next
to a blissfully burned out and overall dull husband.
Book him a room at the Heartbreak Hotel
I listen, while eating a hunka, hunka burned toast,
eyes trained on twitching hips that
escape spousal observation.
Return this one to sender, sugar
he croons, while appreciatively stroking my mangos,
a silken murmur, barely
heard over the other’s bran crunching.
I can’t help falling in love with you
he smirks, with a guttural growl, and
a trademark windmill and pelvic thrust—
clueless, mister stares dimly into an empty bowl.
Let’s kill him and dump his body in the ghetto
faltering steps trip on a thought,
oh, to be a Memphis queen, thinking
Apron is a town in Ohio.



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