What We Like

by Tyler Dempsey, 3.24am March 10th 2021

Down to my truck, is where, us—tonight, this night, of which we’re talking, this night, I brought over Jane and Clara to Papa’s house—we went next. When, gone was what we lifted to our

lips. Gone the thing naughty girls like best. I looked at these sisters. I said, Want to get down.

Jane and Clara, licked up, and down their puckered up lips. 

Fuck yea, they said. 

Next to my big brown truck, leaves in the air by their puckered up cheeks, swirled. 

Close the door, I whispered, as they stepped boots in my truck. 

I grinned—and revved the engine, like this. 

We’re going to get down, Jane said. 

Roads that were rock started being made with dirt. Houses, peopled with people houses, sit

way back on roads like this. On roads like this, roads whisper. 

Like they do. 

This, is what the road was whispering.


Where not all the outside isn’t in, and not all the inside isn’t not out, is where, us, in this truck, were going. Where, roads aren’t too straight or curly, and persons not fully alive, and those not-all-too dead—what is this word.


Where a person, not sure if they’re looking through the eyes of their phone, or their own, decide they won’t decide. Neither planted in a wooded, hole-in-the-wall place, nor anchored in the air you can’t breathe—persons, such as these—hear life isn’t what they show themselves, but a thing shown them.

It’s what naughty girls like best.