a
poem by
Rich Furman
> bio
Of conquests dreamt
Mariachis lounge in the square,
hauling their horn cases,
eating tongue tacos,
praying for five dollar gigs
to pay for rents back due.
Men peer over corral doors
as drag queens flirt and dance
with others who can pay for their drinks, for them.
Strip bar neon lights flash unsteady,
hours sagging, silent girls peer out the doors
to temp with fantasy so thinly veiled.
A mother holds her naked toddler,
vagina pointed towards the street,
urine spouting forth, flowing past the tourists
who blind, flip through guidebooks
for the next attraction to be crossed off their lists,
accountants of borrowed existence,
hash marks in the wooden beds of conquests dreamt.
