CHERISSE


Fingers
sweaty and pale
feathering down bony 
hips

"How about a date studboy..."

trying
to smooth down
her skintight polyester
imitation leopard skin hotpants

"...got some honey if you got some money..."

I shrug
tell her I must
buy groceries today

"...now would you rather buy some old groceries..."

It's my own fault
I had smiled
or winked
or wiped my brow
or asked the time
or something

"...you wanna..."

I get pickup lines
give pickup lines
the worst
all the time
but somehow
she's being so
damn sweet about it

"...shoot your hot juice down the middle of my..."

So odd
her eyes
wide open like a
tourist's pocket
puffy lips relaxed into
a smile too easy for
a prematurely aging face


"...come on up and let's swing..."

easy as
asking the time

"...I'm ripe and ready for a lover like you to..."

The script is the same
but she is not one of
the hardshell hookers
I sometimes drink with
on slow Friday nights

"...only thirty dollars for my..."

But this one
not in her years
or body or words
but in her voice
my kid sister
following me
all over town

"...drain you dry..."

I realize
standing in the pit of
a dead August afternoon

I'm listening
to a child

"...so what can you offer me studboy?"

I offer her
a cup of coffee

She looks at her
imitation alligator
skin wristwatch
letting the bad script
flutter away into
the gutter with
last night's reviews

"OK I guess it's time for a break..."

	* * *

The coffee tastes
like burnt paper

We're the only
customers

She loads up on sugar
I take mine black

Her name is Cherisse
she's twenty-two
comes from rural
Indiana where there's
nothing to do but

"...get drunk and let the guys play with you"

She felt safest
sleeping with Mommy
who still
lives in Indiana
but hates her Daddy
who lives under the bed

We take small sips
while the Old Man Sol
melts the window into
shards of perspiration

trade rumors about
local cops of whose
machinations she has
the sixth sense of
a mouse in a cathouse

gossip about
the neighbors
trade harmless
personal secrets

Then I tell her about
scribbling poems on
old voided invoices
during my lunch hours
and she starts to sing

"When I turned seven Mommy taught me how to drink
when I turned eleven Daddy taught me how to stink"

Suddenly
she unzips her pants
pulls up her yellow
spaghetti strap blouse
shows me a tiny belly
full of wrinkles and
what look like
whip welts

"Stretch marks see I had a baby Friday night but my boyfriend
wants me working today to pay the doctor bill he said"

No rancor in her voice
just a slight weariness
in her now familiar
singsong

Today is Sunday

The counter guy
pays no attention
he works
fifteen hours a day
has his own family
whom he sees mostly
in the silence of
sleep or prayer

I ask the baby's name

"I have to go..."

She has this habit
of biting her lips

"...Jimbo can't see me here..."

maybe that's
why they're so
seductively puffy

"...thanks for the coffee..."

as she wriggles
from the booth
hurries through
the doorway

"...nice talking..."

and around the corner

Slowly
I set down my cup
fish out my lighter
set fire to
the little pile
of paper napkins
drop it into
the coffee

Incredibly
it still burns

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This poem is from On Pagan Roads Copyright © 2004 David Arv Bragi