AT TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING LIGHT

AT TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING LIGHT

the whore-lady dressed bright black to match

her shining piled-up hair

leaves the bar across the street

and spikes back wobbly

with the truck driver in a leather jacket,

which, in this eager light, looks gray, while

the refrigerator motor on top his truck idles

disinterestedly; unlike his tight trouser pocket

which bulges with his hand and haste

and the power of the pulsing morning-whiskey-

sun to life,

or the luxury of waste,

spent early in the day.

It’s a pretty butch bar.