The streets ram themselves into coochies:
sodden women with bamboo for backs
& taffy for sex. Both sweet & sour.
Star-cloaked women who don’t bend
or break. Who catch Hondas right in they grills.
Women with electric-pink hoofs that drag
in the slow churn of the intersection. Clog
the sidewalks. Metastasize along the corridor
of Main Street. They have come to settle
around the bend of this corner. Pose
under carnival-like car lights at just nine-thirty.
Note: It ain’t even prime time & they got all that
good-good going on sale. The gully accordion,
their arms sway in & out of tempo with traffic.
They stagger in & out of the busted frame of Pop’s
Grocery neon-blue open sign. Their smoke-thin throats
glitter when they slip into the ringing center of the motel lobby.
Strangled light bubbles & soaps along their jaws like melted crayons
through the Plexiglas. A rush of shade strains
against their nylon-clamped thighs, rides up their hips
& dangles around their soft bellies as they saunter on in.
They be harvested sounds for the replay later this evening.
When they got to make it do what it do. When they got to
cash they own checks. Trace dollar signs into ceilings — signals
cut with their zirconia-encrusted toes.
Giggle & grunt at all the right moments
for the Best in Show.