trench coats & french toast
2001 by PJ Nights

We blow smoke signals across
your rusty Delta 88
in exhaled tokes of winter air.
Frost fingers creep up my
bare legs and crystallize curls
wet with morning sweat.

Smells of slung hash leak from
the chrome diner. My coat echoes
caresses as I sashay past
regulars on silver swivel stools.
Smudged mascara and
puffy lips - a jukebox mocks,
swallows my two-bits
for an Elvis serenade.

We thaw with gulps of French toast
and steam over chipped mugs.
Trapped in my trench coat,
tributaries of sweat join
in rivers between my breasts,
pool my belly button only to spill
over in a rush to join musky
reminders of you; your x-ray leer
adds the burn to my cheeks.

It seemed the thing to do, darling,
wanting to stay clothed in little
but you. Take me home, please,
peel me from my wrapper.
Lay me back in tangled sheets
surely cool now in our absence.


IPBC HM Nov. 2001
Erosha 2002
MiPo Print - PJ Nights interview

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