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
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