Bio Note: I am a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. I love to do readings and also to read other's poetry.
A makeshift crap game in a Spanish Harlem dive – furious men spilling ivories down a length of frayed carpet – “Craps,” yells one – he’s the only guy that doesn’t curse – he’s saving it for the next roll. So what am I doing here? Candy for a loser’s eyes to lick? A prize cup for the winner? None of the above. If I want to be Mitch’s girl I have to follow him down into the sucker’s den. It doesn’t bother me that it’s strictly a men’s game here. I like that I’m alone somewhere, that I can feel the curve of myself, everywhere, just by leaning with my elbow on a table, and my hands marking time on my laminated drum. Can the earth say the same? Can any of these luck-besotted fools as they suck on dice like it’s their mother’s teat? Some old dog ex-Marine gives me his best come-on stare. He just gets blankness in return. My eyes are my favorite restraint. I know the rules. I know I occupy a woman’s place. I’m just not that woman.
You've Reached the Wrong Me
My cell rings. A semi-familiar voice asks, “What’s up?” How do I make morning breath, untidy hair, droopy eyes, limp body, sound the least bit interesting and appealing. Why can’t he call when I’m bungee-jumping out of my second-story window. Or giving yoga lessons to the married couple in the apartment below. Or rehearsing my trick-cycle act. Or swallowing a sword. Instead, he gets a woman who’s just begun her first coffee. And the cup is not tottering on the tip of my tongue. The pajama top stain is from yesterday.
©2021 Juanita Rey
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL