Truck Stop

 

Right to your hands soft one,
a bright apple that your teeth enter,
driven three days by a hard one
who once came home to a cleaned-out house
and a kidnapped son.
In the top bunk of a semi-truck
you cry for the thousandth time
about your first love.
In a cement lot so full of metal
it is like one enormous grinding jaw
you start to see how even
your great pain is plush.
You see the toothy-moon
and imagine the whores
as a cape’s black swoop
as they walk the humming rows
to bang on each metal door.
In the morning you see their bruised lips
and mortar-eyes between eyelid-bricks
and in one long breath you realize that all the danger is real.
A man stands under a shock of stars,
almost asleep standing up,
and he tells you that there is nothing to trust,
so he plays his saxophone
in the back of his semi-truck
like a kettle boiling in a marble hall
after everyone is already gone.