Object

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Debbie Does the Drawer.

See? It’s a joke.

For some people

it’s in the alliterative d-d-d,

it’s nostalgia for that ancient porn

Debbie Does Dallas. Some people

laugh and laugh. See —

police search the apartment

but don’t find Debbie. Because …

Debbie does the drawer! She’s crushed

into a trundle

under a bed. She can cry

out. She does not cry out

(the officer may not be the officer).

What about the one where Debbie does

a dog crate for 40 days?

Are you hungry, the “boyfriend” asks.

This fucking thing can’t be hungry —

he knows that. It’s a joke.

So he sticks it and sticks it and sticks it full

of dog biscuits. Laughs and laughs.

But all jokes aside, he knows

it’s serious business. The breaking down

biz, the wising up biz.

Want a thing, buy a thing. Be the one to sell.

And the object can’t object.

Bend over, says an old man

the first time,

I want to see what I’m working with …

The object sometimes doesn’t know

what it is, what to do —

but it will learn. Its tongue hits the roof

and an open-mouthed hum, a sort of “nnnnnnn”

precedes an “OH!”

But, no no no no no no no no no no no …

the object can’t object. What’s it for?

50 men a day or more.

Getting “the girlfriend experience” or

getting in getting off going home.

Most of them were married,

with kids, says Debbie

with a cup of cocoa, debriefing.

And every single one of them,

me.