The hard stuff

The dealer sat uninvited
beside my wife at our table,
a glass bottle in his fist,
and slurred in mocking accents
honed with menace and spite.
He glared if I interrupted.
My wife wasn’t spared
his hot breath on her ear.
I pushed him away when he
licked her face, but I didn’t
hear what he whispered
up close about her cunt,
and then to dispel any doubt
he was simply dumb drunk
said I see you at the gym,
winked and left for a smoke.

(c) 2013 The Slush Poet