Poetry

A Decent Skin

“Oh him,” she laughed, “he’s a decent skin, I suppose.” She spoke as we left the party, referring to one of the men who had clustered around her. I didn’t think much about it as I drove her back to her house and followed her into her kitchen and up to her bed. (As I did in those days.) But I do think about it now. I think of his decent skin as he moves his hands and then as his groin stretches and then as he eases his stomach on top of hers.  

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