Goldner (2)

Harvey Goldner

Two Poems

La Belle D.C. Dame Sans Money And
The Man From The State Department
                 for Tina and Tiffany

He met Ms. Pussy in a Georgetown bar. She was drinking doubles, Remy Martin, through lips painted shocking-scarlet, which the girls called cocksuckingred. Her speech was a stew of London, New York, Paris, Valley Girl and porch-talk-under-a-Georgia-moon. She fed him chili with her spoon. Bowie sang: Let’s Dance, and she did. Her hair swept the floor like a broom, and her ass was as high as a sprinter’s, squeezed into the gold lamé of life. He bought a room.  For an hour she was his wife.  It trembled like a flower.  Time cannot erase the sweet moan she made while she sat upon his face. He woke alone to find she’d cleaned him out: cash, cards, car keys, and coke. His car turned up a week later, wrecked beside a cold hill outside Brunswick, Georgia. At a Montana Truckstop “My girl friends have all ways been cow boys,” said the old trucker adjusting his Peter- bilt cap.

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