WORKiNG GiRL

There’s a working girl cuffed 
to the middle of my spine, inside,
jabbing her purple knock-off heels
into the stomach, laid across intestine
with an elbow propped 
on the gallbladder,
twisting into everything 
because she wants out—
i won’t keep her.
Neighbors, out of town yuppies 
passing through in lincoln rentals 
witness her climbing legs; 
a small town gone mad,
opening her modestly aggressive
sundress pushing the torched mystique.
Foul-mouthed prayers near midnight,
she sharpens against the lowest of ribs
keeping us alive, tallying her gifts, 
grinding down lipstick, singing 
while both are unable to sleep
after hunting spotted mosquitoes
hiding in drawers and lampshades to feed.
We douse light sent down by lantern
fueled with false perspective of busy
women simply out looking for it.
Together touring main street,
dancing in doorways rattling blues,
nothing she may actually enjoy,
she moves to be nice; I know it.
Illuminated pertinence in shared booze
brings on common deranged hysteria 
passed back and forth like an easy 
glass of marijuana-green jubilee.
Manic fits come from feeling walking tremors.
Jerking at bones, she demands bangle keys
to wash her face in the outrageous balm
of may strolling us home.
When we can take crashing so close
into one another no longer, we go out.
Climbing up, she picks at the ass of her dress
pinched between her cheeks to find
herself huffing at the locked door
of the room where players, chachies,
sorrowful men and old boring bags
cannot pin down her laughter.
On the gray carpeting of the small boarding
where i begin to roll back the owl,
she rests cross-legged laying back on my chest,
grass in her hair,
both growing melancholic,
strengthened at the sound of train
whistles under siren of coyote hymnals 
and the borealis of television silhouettes.