I brought her to dinner
at Mom’s house,
spaghetti and meatballs,
I think...
and over dinner she said
how wonderful I was,
and my mom laughed
and said,
“No he isn't!”
Shortly after
we had a tiff
and she decided
I'd be no fun
and told me so
by text message
the day before Valentine's Day.
Class.
It gets better...
I, of course,
couldn't let it slide
because she was
such a hot piece of tail,
and I am so goddamn irresistible,
so I put on my detective’s hat,
and began scouring social media,
to learn that she'd grown tired
of the 9 to 5
and started dancing again,
shaking her tits and ass
at the same strip joint
as her 19 year old daughter.
And soon after,
in search of a bigger payday,
the two of them
started hooking,
and their advertised special
on the escort site
was mother daughter tag team.
You can’t make this shit up.
A female friend I told
studied my face
until she was sure
I wasn’t joking,
and then said,
“Dude, I think your picker is broken.”
It’s been years now,
since all this,
but I still drop by her page
sometimes.
Seems they went straight.
A recent photo showed
a baby boy,
looking mildly disgusted
with mom and gramma’s lips
pressed to either side
of his little bald head.
Kid must be fuckin’ psychic.
About Brian Rihlmann:
Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.
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