The pages of the old Playboy magazines
we had in stacks
in my father’s cluttered garage
were flat, muted moth wings
with wholesome milk ad faces
smiling up at me from their covers
before the days of rampant plastic
surgery; pointy nippled titties
small and high or supple
breasts attached to women arching
their backs, ringless fingers draped
across the delicate curves of their
untucked stomachs.

At age twelve,
I made my living
by selling them to boys
out my parents’
bathroom window;
an underage Playboy drive-
through of sorts.

There were other magazines:
Hustler, Cherry, some nameless
without covers stashed
beneath the bottom drawer
of the bathroom; battered publications
found by accident
when I pulled the drawer
out too far, smashing my toe
as it landed on the floor.
I remember in particular,
one with a brown haired girl
who traded a Tootsie Pop
for the cock
of an old, bald man;
her mouth and eyes
as lifeless
as the blow-up doll
she resembled.

Even at twelve, I knew
better than to sell
those ones
out the window.
But I got five bucks
a copy
for the Playboys.