When I look in the Mirror I See Veronica Lake
it's two in the morning,
the heat from the city streets
feels like a warm bath
and my body has begun to do odd things in this weather;
stretch itself out over formica counter tops
with cigarettes snuggling close for protection
in blackened ashtrays,
dreaming of men in dark suits with penciled mustaches
and tonic making their hair more like a wet dog's.
in the restroom mirror, a woman's number is written
and I scribble it down in need of directions
to these breasts and concave facial features.
it's difficult to be impressed
but there is something to be said
for not knowing the work of this body.
i could have been crazy, running off
with a carfull of drunken insomniacs
or sewing hundred dollar bills in my underwear
in case of amnesia.