As I waken into this bar I feel
the bra feeling
tight
and my pants dampen
bar stool plastic leather where
dress cotton stops
and a ridge under my knees.
My green heels lock on a crossbar.
Blue mirrors seduce the words I am about
to model with blue lips
to rough, companionable men whose dirty hands
talk loud around the bar.
"Here's from Harry." The barkeep slides me
a beer.
I raise the glass to Harry, and I say, thanks, Harry.
But I cannot say a name that's not my own.
I am not Pat or Doris
daytimes
and I am not a waitress with time off,
a secretary, typist, or hairdresser,
and I don't sell.
I give my own number.
Beer comes around again. I raise
the glass to Sam, and I say, thanks, Sam.
"I'll take the Mack." "Hell, I'll take the Jimmy
any day. Talk about trucks."
"Talk about engines."
"What's the life of a U-drive?"
When beer comes around again I raise the glass
to Bob, who drives a 33 Rolls Royce.
"Fuck the Chevrolet," Jack says,
and I smile, I smile,
making my eyes dimple at that word.
Bob and Harry eye me past their beer.
But that word.
The mirror rocks.
"O, excuse me," says Jack, and
I have elbows. My body is bony.
My hair strings on my ears.
My dress is too big. I have small eyes.
My stomach bulges. My breath is yellow.
My box is made of tin.
My breasts are a pair of sneakers.
"Excuse me," says Jack.
And it's no good, it's no good ever.
I don't fuck.
I'm a different kind of whore.