My second-favorite bartender
of all relative time
pops into the passenger seat
of a truck that's outperformed
its owner in ways the commercials
would never dare to mention.
Hypocrites ain't big on history.
It's hard to believe that I was 17
17 years ago, but my truck's
not like a rock.
It's almost her turn
to watch old men drown themselves
next to a murky river
but she's asked me to stop
on my way home from the same.
A white plastic shopping bag
laden with food containers
is placed on the floor
between her legs--
two places I know well
as she smirks at my amazement.
I notice that the tape
holding one of her hair extensions
is showing through the ponytail
she's thrown up in a rush.
She tells me that it doesn't matter
since she's not able to see it.
Pleased with her good deed
she exits, clad in black.
Before I shift the transmission
to head back where I hang myself nightly
I lean forward from the seat
to rub the surgical scar on my back
feeling the raised suture sites
and wonder if the doctor
removed more than he said.
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