lights.

he led her

to the bedroom

where they would strip

and do it.

quickly (she thought)

quickly.

he has been waiting

for seven months

since she left

in april, may, or june.

he is drunk.

she wishes she were.

quickly, please,

quickly (was all

she thought).

in this room, 

he had one bed,

where she'd slept

in april, may, or june.

on that bed,

no sheets,

no coverings,

just another body

beside his own.

at barely eleven

in room no. 003,

he kissed her mouth

and neck, breathing

her and only her

the jutting clavicle

that warned his bones

could not stop 

           shaking.

at eleven-o-four

she opened her eyes

and turned her head

to look

at the threadbare top

of the mattress 

wearing away.

the sewing 

came undone.

she was wearing 

away, had come 

undone quickly,

quickly

at eleven and six.

at 11:09

he paid her

and he had gotten

all he wanted

out 

rather quickly.

she took off,

having put on

her shirt and jeans,

unbuttoned but zipped,

(her hair still beautiful

in the lights)

and she ran

quickly

to pay the clerk

who worked in the store

on the corner of 8th

and mulberry

that she hoped 

had not yet closed

its doors,

for milk and cookies

to be Santa's 

good little girl,

though a little late.

(she knows he won't mind

if the cookies are there,

she will be

early, for next year.)

quickly, quickly,

in april, may, or june.