I’ll call you Bert; you call me Lo.
Let us go, you and I, to look for America in a thousand roadside diners. I’ll eat cherry pie and count the stones to find out who I’ll marry, while you finger my smooth slit, beneath the table, when the waitress isn’t looking.
No one needs to know about your madness or my need to break the rules—to spill sand from my red shoes on the floors of a hundred motel rooms.
Then lie back in your arms and charm the penis snake until it grows.
