The waitress steps onto the patio for a smoke,
memorizing the license plates should better-be-safe
turn to simmer-and-spill. Dr. Cobra is bar-stooled
inside, relaxing in late afternoon’s time-stop,
his pendulum of smiling anger.
His lucky coin spins with the comfort of a scalpel’s gleam.
One of these nights he’ll wear her down
and she’ll follow him home, headlights a slow tango
for moon and winding road.
He aches to slip the pencil from behind her ear,
uncoil her tight Aztec braid,
test her ethical endurance.
To cover her hand with his own,
guiding her fingers over the operating table,
whispering at her shoulder its anthology of stains.