Wild Rose walks into a bar.
She is wearing a very small
black dress that shows off
the bulge of her belly,
the rippled skin of her thighs,
and the desert flatness of her chest.
She catches the eyes of no one.
There is no one here she wants
to meet except the very happy man
in the corner who is buying
drinks for everyone.
“You’re a bit late,”
Death says to her as she sits
across from him.
“I know,” she says. “I wasn’t sure
what to tell the family, so I said
I’d be at a PTA meeting.”
“Dressed like that?” he says,
and he gives her a wink.
“You look ready for anything.”
He hands Wild Rose a drink.
Tequila. She licks the salt
from his hand.
“Let’s dance,” he says.
“On the tables,” she says.
And the band never
takes a break.