with all the ardor of an actuarial convention

by Justin Hyde

one fluid motion of the wrist
the older redhead
with a face like a dostoevsky novel
standing next to you at the bar
drops your fly - -
twist finger through the trap-door
she gives it a few thoughtful shakes
like she’s inspecting a zucchini.
nothing to write the pope about, she says,
but it’ll do.
chin glued to your chest
staring down at the bald headed tchaikovsky
as if you were seeing him for the first time - -
twice
then twice more
she snaps her fingers:

now the question is
do you know how to use it?