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Next door, he climbs under
A jacked-up Chevy with a droplight.
His girl rags off
The silver tools before passing them under.
Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble.
The concerto in my room goes weak.
But when they quit
It's a black quiet.
I lie down and my mind gets up
In its sleep.
At my kitchen table
He leans over a blank page --
Cut hands and cracked nails
Rimmed with slim moons of dirt.
He is mocking
Up a list of my loves:
The click of well-seated valves,
A good rock beat for the drags,
A girl beside me,
The beautiful poor white girl
Who will litter me kids,
Adjust the light, shadows for make-up.
© BOA Editions, Ltd 1982