Truck Stop Time

Truck Stop Time The frozen wind cracks its whip And slits my darkened lips One on top of the other, dry. The warm blood hardens scabs crusty on my Four o’clock shadow Four o’clock a week ago. Eyes half open Two thirds shut Cold air bites my ass And my nocturnal pupils pinch As I walk into the Pure Oil Truck Stop I-75 at state route 309 Two o’clock, snapping my fingers to Conway Twitty Two o’clock a week ago. These grizzly-bear beer-bellied, hauling ass Gnawing on their Texas breakfast, eggs and home fried forks As I sit down in the faded sexual leather booth number three The insomniacs and drunken loners tip their noses Shot by snow outside. “Give me a coffee.” Thick as muddy-cat-****-snow Marshmallows? No, ’cause I can feel my big toe thawing out Below my Levi’s, greased by Jack Daniels, that Couldn’t stay down to keep me warm When I was really cold A week ago. Coffee arrives Graveyard attendant with a whore’s body Tight faded sexual leather Burnt taste buds as the coffee oozes down Over the J.D. and the roast-beefed intestine. Arby’s a week ago. Razored lips Wet again as I get up leaving a quarter. Whores get cheaper, the air gets meaner, I get tired A week from now late night emissions of Jack Daniels Coffee will pass back up by my lone tonsil Trucks will pull out, warm CO2 **** on the blacktop Whores will look out the windows, warm I’ll walk down Leonard Avenue The bird will be nipping Nipping at 2:23 a.m. a week ago.