Sherrie WELLER

ISSUES

they follow like agents
garbed in black suits
and dark glasses, even
when the moon's out.

demimondes dressed in sumptuous
silk costumes smelling like pink margaritas
and the sweat of sex in the 5 a.m.
twilight of mardi gras. they snag
a ride in your bag, hide between
thoughts and things and skin.

hitchhikers with handwritten
signs that say 'you', scratched
in black scattered letters on
torn cardboard, they loiter
on the side of the road.

don't lie.

you feel safe when they're
around, draped on your
couch, feet on the coffee table,
cigarette hanging from lips

you love their gypsy
presence, thick musk of music,
smoky eyes, and finger bells
that ring in b flat

you offer them aged
scotch in dim light

and spellbound by velvet words
intoxicated with long blue tongues
you invite them to spend
the night

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