“A COUGH, A HEAVE, AND A WHISTLE”

I sit in a Studio City cafe
under a heavily antlered elk,
rendered in crackling oils.
It possesses shadows of underside
balls, but no cock.
Directly behind me is a hallway
which leads to a door that reads
WOMEN.

I sit on my throne chair,
recovering
from the salmon stack benedict
I devoured.
I'm never not satisfied when
dill
is sprinkled on hollandaise.
Forking at fruit,
I listen to the sounds of a
WOMAN
unmistakably purging
her Hollywood body
of the delicious fat
I can't seem to get enough of.

She coughs,
she heaves,
and she leaves;
sauntering up
the hallway in heels,
whistling
as the door slams shut
behind her
rebounding ass
under tight black dress.

The price of a meal
in this place
is higher than most,
but the taste
is worth it; to some
more than others.

narrative poem written on 05-04-2015 by: on mattkane.com
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