Magpie
Well….
She calls me up from Dallas, with a tin can from her cardboard palace. All broken down like the radiator burst, and she can’t be touched because of how much it hurts.
Things are bad and, only getting worse. Belly dancing in a peacock shirt, at the bust stop, with Buck’s old hot finger up her shirt because you don’t get a pay check from Grey neck to flirt.
The cigarette tray at the Arcade’s empty, a kiss on the brown envelope she sent me, cocktail lounge on an old dirty mattress, a long way from home and a bus to Kansas.
Drunk and drinking and, Lost and thinkin...