The black Father watched her from the side
Of the swimming pool.
His words - a crowbar.
His breath - a corpulent vice.
His eyes - malevolent, hypnotic pinwheels.
He was a salesman of sorts and he dressed well.

She engaged him in a plastic chair
Over the course of dinner and he listened closely.
He watched her mouth as she spoke.
It reminded him of a wet, red paper bag.
He took slow drinks from his glass.
She smoked thin, unsatisfying cigarettes,
One after the other.
The evening passed like warm rain.

When he took her to her room
And turned to leave it was calculated.
When her voice emerged
There was no hesitation. No pride.

Afterwards he counted them all
And tried to remember their faces.
He even tried to remember their names
which was harder still.

In the morning he left his room empty
And put his belongings into the trunk of his car.
Maybe she was still asleep. It didn’t matter.
He was a collector and collectors
Are always unhappy.
The sun was bright and white
And this made him glad to be driving west.