A beat-up Dodge creeps up the corner,
and you think of that guy who just wanted to talk,
and you can't believe he still paid.
You remember the guy who brought you home,
and showed you his Jeff Stryker
after he threw you in the harness.
You think you see the one that just handed you the money,
and pulled your head down in one fell swoop.
You watch the fist-fight two doors down,
and are too tired to guess who did what.
You count the pretty older boys
as they stumble out to the lot.
You slide to the bus depot vending machine,
buy a Baby Ruth with your emergency bus change,
and laugh about a man who gave you an oil massage
wearing rubber gloves and two condoms.
You list the ones that you wish hadn't seen you.
You have your 3 a.m. breakfast with your eyes half-closed.
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