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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-shit-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 shit 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.

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