Meeting the Devil in Myrtle Beach outside Woody’s, Hwy 17

Meeting the Devil in Myrtle Beach outside Woody’s, Hwy 17

by Alice Osborn


Aren’t I the one you’re looking for? he greeted me
at the restaurant door. I should have done laundry
or zoned out to VH1 instead of meeting friends for beers.
Who was this man with a bald head shaped like a squash,
a nimble slug in a Dick’s T-shirt and jean shorts.

Who could be this fugly with such confidence?
I didn’t mean to nod at, Do you like dancing?
He poked me with questions about lasagna. White or red?
He told me I preferred a bloody cardinal vintage.
Karaoke? He knew I sang every Wednesday night. Then
he asked me about any hoop piercings in my lady parts.
A smirk from his thick, swine lips. You look like you have
a thick clit. How could he know or not know?
He smelled of Brut and Bensons & Hedges, not brimstone,
but, oh, yes, it was time to leave and take a different way home.

Damn my good manners.
Damn the concrete attached to my black mules.
Damn my shitty dating pool at this tourist trap.
Damn my heart’s echoes.

I didn’t mean to vaporize seven minutes from my life.
I didn’t mean to never forget his face.

-refers from the phrase “boozy conviction” in the poem Playing Blues Harp Alone in an Unfinished Basement by Justin Hamm

  1. Incredible poem, Alice! So glad to get to read your work!

  2. Great poem, Alice. Some distrubing imagery–and maybe the first time I’ve seen “fugly” used in a poem? So perfect.

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