He calls you
Baby Hard Luck,
with cooing verity,
and rests beside
your finely shaved
and naked legs.

The evening
found below the iron belt,
the alley stropped
jeans with a half
pack of reds
tucked in,

and all that
tremendous
motion,
the record
slopping
onward.

you hope
the song will
never end,
but they are all
your favorite.