—IT SHOULD BE EASIER TO LAUGH

                                          Teddy Bear

My lover has dirty fingernails, but I don’t mind. 

He’s a mechanic in high demand and knows his way around a chassis.  With his tool kit, he can make me into anything, nectar or hot oil, stuffing or sap, and I guess I like it that way.

In bed, I’m his flexible doll baby.  He sheds his rough work days on sheets I no longer bother to change, sheets that map the ferocity of our dumb luck.  If someone ever saw us they might call 911 or burst out in hysterics.

Depending on the day’s shift, he is either an orphaned kitten or a Kodiak bear, hairy and clawed.  Once he brought a king salmon to bed, but it had nothing to do with our eating it.  Unpredictability has never been that kind to me, though not much has, which is why I stock a cooler with beer and keep it near the night stand.

My sister is on her fifth man.  We stopped talking the night number three shoved his hand down my sweat pants.  I guess I should miss her more than I do, but life is a tape you can rewind, not edit.

My lover has a strong engine.  He’s never finished.  At first that was quite a thrill, but now it’s exhausting.  When he rolls me over, he says, “Teddy Bear, try not to wince this time.”

If we ever get married, I’m going to get a dog and plant a vegetable garden out back of the trailer.  I’ll grow the biggest spuds and zucchini.  I’ll fry them up with a tad of oil and drop the pounds as fast as they jumped me.  My lover teases that he’ll leave me if I lose my boobs, but I’m learning not to scare so easy anymore.

I call my boyfriend my lover because it sounds more romantic and adventurous.  It’s like how a pre-owned car sounds better than a used one.  Having a lover is nearly as special and important as having a kid, and since I can’t have any of those, I’m keeping him.

Some nights when he’s conked out and buzz saw snoring, I study the grease imbedded in the whorls of his fingers.  They either look like tiny rain clouds or bruises on their way to healing.   

My daddy was a mechanic, too.  His hands did all sorts of things that broke the law.  When he wasn’t kicking the dog, he’d call me names, saying I was a donkey’s ass and ugly as sin. 

But this isn’t about him.  He’s not here right now.  The moon is, though.  My lover is, and so am I.