The best kind

The best kind
hot, ugly.
Toes curling,
a new hole opening
in the thin cotton
of his underwear.

The best kind,
he tells himself --
you pay and leave
and swear
you’ll never come back.

She counts the bills,
drops them in a chipped mug
with a cartoon dog

and a girl's name.
Calls him “sweetheart”
like it’s just another word
for “rent.”

There’s a thin scar on her wrist.
He sees it,
looks away,
feels himself shrink
a size too small.

It doesn’t help when she laughs
at the growing crack next to the window,
and says that the landlord
jacked the rent again--
those small, ordinary aches
cut deeper
than anything in the bed.

He finishes fast,
does what he came to do,
drops an extra five
on the dresser--
like that seals the crack,
like guilt’s a parking meter
and he’s finally fed it
the right change.

In the bathroom mirror
he meets himself--
sweaty, old,
face like a bad habit
under buzzing light.

The disgust
comes in waves.
Not at her.
At the soft patter of her feet
behind the curtain,
resetting the bed
for the next man
who’ll swear
he’ll never return,

He fumbles
into his ripped underpants
like a drunk
stepping into traffic
and hates that some part of him
still calls this
the best kind.