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.
-
Author:
William A. Poppen (
Offline) - Published: July 16th, 2026 09:44
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Paul Bell, Kevin Hulme
Offline)
Comments4
Selling oneself for what can be gleaned from rough roads. Well written
Don't think this girl does love and mortgages.
Some like the action and the quick goodbyes.
good write
An enjoyable Read. Thank you. 👍
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