Preamble

[Wjames]

Ten shins were bundled tight
beneath the knotty alder table
supporting our glasses.

It was Dean’s cabin,
and he sat at the table’s head
drinking whiskey like a scoundrel
getting ready for a crime.

I drank slowly, measuring the eyes
of the girl opposite me, watching the hands
of the grandfather clock as it neared its chime.

The girl’s father had been in the army,
and she would move from base to base
like a leadoff hitter headed home.

She had met Dean at a bar a few weeks ago,
and he told me she was an angry fuck,
biting and scratching until she came.

She brought two friends,
a slim blonde with crooked teeth,
and a short brunette with grey eyes.

They looked like college girls,
draped in cardigans with their thighs
wrapped in neon jeans.

I pretended to be interested
in their stories.