They heard she was a poet who shocked the open mic Friday nights with tight skirts and loose words that slid off her teeth over her whiskey breath. Truck drivers, who rode hard, daily listened for ******* screams and honking horns, came to see her. They balanced on rustic chairs, drank *** and Cokes, and hoped she wanted a ride to Reno.
She heard they were drivers with sharp eyes and taut ***** beneath blue denim. She didn’t mind weather beaten beards, calloused hands or that they would leave 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.