“the girl in my headlights in the drive-thru window of the catfish shack”
was a blonde of about 22.
i could tell
by the way she walked
she was drunk
on gas station gin.
each strand of fringe
on her cutoffs
sang independently.
suddenly, to my right,
a yellow cat sprang from beneath
a green el camino
and, in an instant,
both were mere shadow -
ink for this tattoo
against time -
payment for a mediocre meal.