You can tell a hooker
whatever lies you like. Become an anthropologist
dining at the corners
of her open mouth.
You tell her you’ve come back
from seeing the world, a journalist
if it suits you. Grope her gray ass
pock-marked like moon landings in the yellow hours
of your parent’s living room, brimming
Your half-brother, 18 years your younger,
is 6. She unzips your pants to the tune
of his Fischer Price accordion she kicks
away black heels, shooing off teddy bears
You invent a real estate license, confessing success
on a handshake for the family time-share. And,
even before you left the States, that
you were a generous son
between puffs up her skirt.
What’s finished is over.
You offer a glass of water and a chance
to watch TV, a break from the bump and grind.
Her palms still glistening,
I’ll leave you to your unpacking,
it would seem
you’ve still got much left to do.