The Weekend Dreams of Salamander Cal

[busker]

He wants a woman in a tank top and cut-offs,
legs slick with tangerine and coconut.

He wants her to make eggs when it rains—sunny-side up, 
splashed with Tabasco.

Saturdays, she's barefoot by the woodshed,
watermelon sweating on a tray, 
while he splits maple.


Sundays after church, she's on the porch, 
Bloody Mary in her hand, 
cigar smoke on her lips.

But weeknights 
he tends his salamanders. 
For Caterina, two ounces of ham.
Lorraine, the maraschino.

Then four fingers under
 
his waistband,

he dozes on the sofa
until the next day wakes him.

I think this is a perfect poem. Unironically. I wouldn't change a thing.
Hamsters would've been so so. Salamanders really take you there. I keep coming back to 'But weeknights'...utterly brilliant. Even the names. Drawn from life in some form, because you couldn't make this up.