Lying in a Creek

YOU ARE THERE ON A COOL TABLE, bare ass naked except a paper thin gown that isn’t even covering up the part of you that is cold. You’re wheeled into the operating room that’s cold and dark except for the portable lights. There is the surgeon; he’s the one eating a sandwich because he missed lunch, then there are the two nurses, both with nice bodies under tight scrubs, the anesthesiologist; he’s the only one who gets to sit down during the surgery. In this case, you’d see the seven med students who are going to watch the surgeon try to fix your mangle leg, broken in five places, including the femur, which as hard as concrete—it’s the angle that really gets you, said the doctor. And they need to do something about your foot that’s nearly been ripped off as well. Then they hit you with the general anesthesia and that’s all there is to remember really, the doctor was saying something while you were drifting off, but it doesn’t matter, you let him worry about that.

I’ve had ten surgeries in the last three years and this is more or less how they go, except for the last one I had, which was done outpatient. I laid back on the paper lined table and the nurse practitioner poked me with a six inch need all around the outside of my knee cap after he cut the cast off my leg, then he poked hemostats into the holes were the rods went in and jerked, twisted, and finally pulled each one out, then wrapped the knee in gauze.

How all this happened was—there was this girl.

Tanned and black haired and she held her self well. She started working in the same grocery store as I did, she came in and really stirred things up around there. Every guy in the store had a hard spot in their pants for her—her and those tight jeans she liked to cram herself into. She’d walk in and the place would almost stop except for the scoffing old women and the kids that were too young to understand—but this isn’t about that. She started work in the summer of two thousand five. I came to find out her name was Wesley. I couldn’t deny the fact that I wanted her, not as a person—I didn’t know anything about her, but I did want her tight body. At the time, I had just turned twenty one and given in to the fact that I was going work at the Piggly Wiggly until I died and nothing I could do would change that fact. I was fine with this until she came along and showed me there were things beyond the store and my trailer and the liquor store—not many things, but defiantly other things out there.

She came to me one day and we started to talk about dogs because there was nothing else to talk about at the moment; a common symptom of grocery work. Grocery work has a way of ruining what you really love and makes you a bland person until you leave for the day or for good. As she talked, I starred at her lips, wet looking from gloss, they moved so quickly and never stopped it seemed. When I began to focus on what she was saying she said, so, do you want them?

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About James Dunlap

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James Dunlap is not much of a poet, but defiantly the kind of poet who likes to be published. Oh, and he cuts up dead cows for a living.
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