Ode to a Mustache Loren Cressler
Jim Croce lies stretched across his ship’s mast ribs and bowling ball skull leathered and unsexed, signature mustache fallen probably onto vertebrae through a former mouth. Still he wafts across my living room and pumps my toes and thrums my blood and cracks my thumping heart and lumps my too sticky throat. I sit and impel my own mustache groundwards from too slow follicles and beg for shagginess, that I might look that goddamn good shirtless ignoring a casual cigarette dangling from too dry lips. 16
