She was walking down the street
and the way she looked -
the way she seemed to glide over
the litter strewn concrete
in that thrift store sundress -
punched me right in the throat
she said she didn’t have a name
said she was raised by wolves
Well I guess that’d make you a *****,
right?
she asked me for a lighter
for her American Spirit -
the turquoise box -
and she smelled like diner coffee
my ashtray
and cheap perfume
the black smudges of makeup
lining her face
told me that she was no stranger
to long nights
and I told her
I’m no stranger to
falling for pretty girls
maybe one day
I’ll be there to catch you
she said,
walking away down the street
disappearing into the spot
where the horizon meets my imagination
I pulled up my pants
and went off looking for a soft landing
for all the pretty strangers