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For the Love of Pork Rinds

Receipt (s)

Among the dirty laundry

And cigarette butts

That basketball shot and

Missed the ashtray

After being put out on my skin

Evidence of our time together

Dingy carbon paper

Smeared credit card number

All left legible was the four

We bought magnum condoms

Pack of smokes

Bubble tape bubble gum

Two bottles of Fanta

And a bag of Pork Rinds

All that there scrawled and 

Faded on the crumbled receipt

Laying like a ping pong ball-sized egg

In my damp but now crusty knickers

No more than an afterthought

Like me

Whore for the night

He didn’t have much

But I was starving

And wanted a warm bed for the night

So, thanks, John Pork Rinds

Your bed is lumpy but warmer

Than asphalt

I made you cum so hard

I felt my back pop as you thrust

That final thrust

Into my dry cunt

And then…

You cried.

Sloppy, snotty sniffling

Into my hair — apologizing

Your pork rind breath made

My nipples hard and …

Father, forgive me, I rubbed my clit to your tears,  

Apology and shame.  Came so quiet. 

Even though it had been a while 

Since I stole an orgasm for myself

Listening to you sleep afterward

Was almost enough that  I could delude

Myself into thinking about having a normal life

With this man 

Be more than the whore

But the wife

Living dissatisfied in the suburbs somewhere

With his brats turning my hair into holiday tinsel

And the smell of pork rinds emanates

From my pores so much and so often

That he’d call me cutesy names

Like  ‘his little piglet’   

And it would be

Some variant of perfect

He belches and the delusion snaps

I wiggle out his arms; he rolls over

I take  the rest of the cash out of his wallet

Steal a shower and pray he doesn’t wake

Get dressed and look one more time

Around this grungy one-bedroom apartment

Swallow the shallow dream of the 

fucked up fairy tale, even the microwaved version

of the promise of a warm bed and food every night, 

and someone to come home to.

I close my eyes, steel myself 

to just go out,  into reality 

The cruel, unreliable streets  full of 

Strangers,  crime, and danger 

Because beneath all that is that tiny glimmer

Of hope.  Hope that if you Hustle

Long enough, and hard enough  you’ll be free 

And safe 

Warm and above all 


Being loved —  worth so much more than being wanted.

People can want anything for the right price but love,  


Ain’t enough pork rinds in all the world to afford that.

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