Carole Satyamurti Three Poems

Here and There

On the shady side of Rue Caulaincourt one of the two local down-and-outs is taking a leak, shaking a last few drops off the end of his limp, pink dick, a small defiant gesture – at us, is it? before tenderly tucking it away.

This side, I’m eating a bavette, succulent, àà point. I eat alone, with perfect manners. I don’t even apply lipstick in public.

From here, his prick looks pale, sad as a deflated balloon. All day he drinks, and smiles and talks to an imaginary friend who understands him. He needs to piss often. That is his pitch, and he is king of it.