For Some, She Said, What Matters is Skin as Creamy as Ice Cream
Like a Salt Lake City truck driver's sister
married to a motel's owner....
They used to preach in school,
You can't run off with some god's treasures.
Afternoon TV half-verified that.
And oh that lovin' kindness, she said,
that slap across the face at home
is what propels, you know, really triggers.
The light in the bar is pavement-gray.
The wine is for scratching our wits
to see if we can make-up a secret to share.
Yeah, baby, I don't mind thin lips
if they kiss back. We're dividing malice clouds
to learn what choices we can take.
I like to call you Plenty-Chances-Taken-Angel:
and the harsh-hidden is our territory, baby,
rough as gritty cement on swing-shift-pale skin.
The July night dies like a ten-speed bike
crashing into a barn door. All the lawn mowers
in town are screaming at each other.
On dim surfaces of hope and regret,
it's Mojave bad luck, our thirst for it,
that leads to roadkill bones and thorns
far from the jiggle of firm breasts
as you bubblebath-soak.
Or Salt Lake City is another made-up tale.
Or: tarnished barrel racing trophy
buckles tossed into the cow lot.
Or: momma's arrowhead collection.
If you hang on to whatever this is,
she says, I'll give you the very best
headboard concussion you've ever had.