I’m talking the bitches who bring
their own dotting pens—the variety
pack that includes the bonus
glitter pen in fuschia. The bitches
who bring their own refreshments
and candies for when their blood
sugar inevitably drops
when the bitch across the room
yells bingo on a 30 dollar crazy L
card. Of course the bitch gets it.
She was winking at the caller
so of course the ball that came
next was a gift from him. His
balls. That’s what the real bitches—
my grandma and her friends say
when they lose. That, or they shit
talk the ugly Christmas sweater
that wasn’t ugly at all, even though
they’re all wearing gas station souvenir
shirts from tropical trips they took
years ago “before the ‘Vid hit.”
I ended up winning big—about
150 dollars richer but about 10
years lesser for it, but I was the bitch
who won three rounds while
the bitches were busy bitching.
Abigale Tabor is a somewhat-recent college graduate living in a somewhat-decent town in northern Florida who writes poetry that echoes her life.
