Tilt your head provocatively,
round your vowels,
make a place for him
in the cleavage of your breasts.
Hope for the best.
What you'll get is anybody's guess.

Once, I pulled out all the stops
and a pickpocket wandered in,
reeking of booze and need;
and once, Death,
who apologized for getting the wrong house
and went on his way
but not before his eyes,
red as a red snapper's
undid every button of my dress.

Dirt, Autumn House Press