asking the man for a sheet of glass
the kind they don’t make anymore
for your back door when you don’t
have two nickels to rub together.
Last week you thought she came
down the road like a Tennessee
Walker, finer than froghair, a tall
drink of water—so you bought
her a wax job, chrome hubcaps
& bet the prizehog you could get
in her pants—then dug out a fence
(why the perimeter of your yard
is a mile long trench) & hauled ass
after her bumper down I-10. Not
like you to turn tail for a whistle or
holler home. Crazy as a shithouse
rat—by week’s end she’d bought
the dress & borrowed blue to marry
you—who change your mind a day
late & a dollar short. Is why her
bocce balls landed like three burned
out engines on your kitchen floor,
while your new live-in stoked lover’s
grits & made the appointment to have
you fixed. What you woofed at weren’t
after all, the best tennisball breasts in
the sweethereafter, but headlights. It’s
why your ears resemble windblown
tracks & you hack up asphalt (though
your fur shines with a halogen brilliance).
