Hell Bent

the lay of rippled satin straps
and cheap store-cut lace
leaves imprints of re-enacted daydreams,

hell bent in the afternoon strains
of jukebox rockabilly
downstairs in the greasy spoon

where music and wooden nickels
play to the smells of drugstore aftershave
and fried onions, up between the
floorboards, saturating the sheets

and the heap of stained underwear,
blending with the taste
of our flesh through nostril rush,

enjoying me the way you would
strips of bacon from the leftover
breakfast platter, washed down
with twice-heated cups of coffee