TIPS
You’re driving under the moon,
neither of you talking about where
you’re going, which must be the end
of this freeway as you know it.
How much cash do you have? Not enough
for gas. How much do you love him?
Not enough to tip the waitress
at the late-night truck stop.
He’ll order biscuits and gravy,
sopping up the goo. How well does
he know her? Not to smile
from the corner of his spoon.
And afterwards you’ll be driving
broke again under the moon.
On the radio Johnny’s singing
“Misty.”
WHITE DAWN
Morning snow floats
its many-layered veils down,
plush fabric piling up pale
and soundless on bare ground.
Daylight’s frail but gathering.
Juncos scratch the sodden leaves
in search of seed. See,
the prints of quail, and one
brown towhee with his
swivel tail.
DRESS REHEARSAL
Closets are the sort of place
for trying out costumes:
ashes for the cheeks, tears
like fake diamonds at the corner
of the eye. Disheveled hair
to show the state
of the heart. A sheet
to wrap herself like poverty,
like dying.
She's been rehearsing
this part all her life. But
never for wages, never,
before, for real.