Every horn in the city blares
She edges through the mob
Where’s the subway stop?
The familiar corner is disguised
in Mardi Gras crepe
Cold beer sloshes down her neck
A hand on her shoulder
She spins around
All night she’s been moving bodies and listening.
During the day the boys smoke and play cards,
but on night shift they tell stories, eyes unmoving;
a heroic raincoat stuffed into the suck of a lung,
gut burst from the shockingly fragile skin of a belly,
the white of bone,
the remains of a face.
Drink this, she tells them. Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.
She spins around
Some sailor grabs her
Cigar smoke and sweat
Tongue prying her lips apart
A shutter snaps
She breaks
Away
Small Poems de Terre 