In Pursuit of Soles


I still remember the Friday nights when I’d leave the bar early


With Jennifer at my side and two frothy mugs full of Pabst in the trunk of my van


And we’d ride out to the Motel Inn, where I’d remove her thick black boots after a squeak of approval


And pour the Pabst on her slim, delicate soles


The liquid would massage her slight blisters and give a special shine to the ring around the littlest of her five rouged and unfortunately whorish teenage offspring, who I tended to support as if I were a belated yet discreet stepfather


And then, I’d lap up the juice on her flesh like a dog on a dish of water


And get delightfully drunk on every one of the snarky juvenile delinquents


But later, the squeaks of her boots became angry and unwelcoming


And she stormed off with a light man who preferred Heineken


So now, I prowl about town with the taste of her soles still fresh in my mind


Like a blind dog in pursuit of the moon, I howl out odes to her precious memory, often becoming entrapped in the clutches of a shallow lamp in the damper sectors of the Motel Inn


Light-years away from my Jennifer.

Related posts:

Ben Simon


Ben Simon is a poet and writer from San Luis Obispo. Two of his poems, "Multiple Meats" and "Peace Poem," have appeared in the local zine SWAP, and his poem "Stiffness Be Gone" is set to appear in Cal Poly's annual literary anthology Byzantium.

One response to In Pursuit of Soles

  1. “Frothy mugs of Pabst…” beautiful, striking, thirst-inducing imagery! Nice poem ^^

Leave a Reply


Text formatting is available via select HTML. <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>