A Ride to Reno

They heard she was a poet

who shocked the open mic

on Friday nights in tight skirts

and with loose words

that slid off her teeth

over her whiskey breath.

Truck drivers,

who rode hard,

listened daily

for orgasmic screams

and honking horns,

came to see her. They

balanced on rustic chairs,

drank Rum and Cokes,

and hoped she wanted

a ride to Reno.

She heard they were drivers

with sharp eyes and taut loins

beneath blue denim.

She didn’t mind

weather-beaten beards,

calloused hands, or

their leaving in the morning.

She was a poet who

gathered words from interludes

among pillows and sheets that

aroused tomorrow’s verse

of wanton words and enticing skits.