Westerberg or Western Beef


She was a young one
– younger than me,
that I could tell.
She had that fresh presumption:
how the world was good
and joyous
so often held by the young.

She said she was twelve
or twenty one
– I’ve got dyslexic ears –
and told me about her upbringing.
The details were lost
as I got lost in her eyes,
her smile,
and her miles and miles of cleavage.
I was not an engaged conversationalist.

We talked through the night
until it was past her bedtime,
I guess,
when she asked me to tuck her in
or suck her chin
or something else again.

I don’t know what I did next
as she’s in the bathroom right now
waiting for my answer.
Any advice?

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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