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| December 17th, 2009 |
| On the truck stop stool next to me,
staring straight into 3am coffee and the thick haired hog-back of his hand, wondering how many caked- lipstick bitches have been thrown through windows on the kiss of his grease-creased knuckles, wandering along rows of cracked heads and chain- beaten limbs left in his swaggering outside a roadhouse diner, working up a lather in the men’s room against a hard-blowing hand dryer, jeans around knees and panting, I can’t look him in the face as I gaze into lemon meringue, kids asleep in the mini-van waiting. |
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| again, I’m projecting |
| by David Oprava |