I shut my window and pull the blinds,
swaying at me like a morning shift stripper who
looks in my direction and winks at me, desperate
for the last Washington in my wallet.
I haven’t washed my bed sheets for three-weeks.
Crusty remnants from past lonely nights stain my covers.
I don’t use lubricants when I jack-off, I prefer the natural,
dry, rough skin from my own hands.
My computer is down, but I have an old Hustler magazine for backup.
My favorite dates are ones bound to a 7/8 sheet of paper,
smiling at me when I’m vulnerable and there’s always a guarantee
for a second date when all I have to do is flip to page thirty.