What’s Up with My Name

My name is a grumble in my throat strings,

a whistle between my front teeth.

She says she’s off to be wealthy

or dance in Las Vegas one time.

She offers to drive me to some

motel off the highway for a boost

to what’s left of my lousy sex drive,

even if I go there alone.

She whispers a truck stop’s a good place

to shop for a big hunk who’s looking

for love on the run, and at least

I can find decent booze and a burger.

I think she’s looking to leave with my money

while I’m left behind anonymous. 

published in Sonnets to Sing