it’s almost closing time.
all the good baits are gone.
i’m plastered on this stool.
my hook rusting like the new
moon, my butt going in circles.
it’s tough. do my best, look
my best, part my hair right,
my collar loose.
be the very first to walk in,
and the very last to crawl out
alone, along with the lefties,
sugar daddies, and trolls.

the waiter’s shouting LAST CALL
FOR ALCOHOL. my head’s shouting
LAST CALL FOR ME ANYONE.
i slap myself hard, tell myself,
I’M NOT AN EASY BAIT NOR A PIECE
OF RAG FROM THE BARGAIN RACK.
I’VE GOT MORALS TUCKED BELOW
MY WAIST. and it tell myself again,
I’M NOT CHEAP. I’VE GOT MORALS.

i pull myself together, get
up, calm, so i don’t get hooked
by 4 a.m. daddies and trolls
and end up strapped in a second
hand BMW or to a palm tree
for the nth time.

all i want is to crawl
into someone’s room, open all
his windows, and cook
him breakfast. it’s tough.

it’s almost closing time.
all the good baits are gone
and the new moon wants out,
wants to go far away.
someone just tossed a quarter
and left it hanging
to rust in the air.