Moons and lipstick prints
on the car floor balled tissues
and another stranger blessing you.
Raw deal, these allergies
to locale. But when you move
you blow anew, and so on--
It’s low moons and no moons,
your lips print on temples
and glasses, whole ashtrays full
of butts with rusty filigree,
and your fingers are stained,
splintered lacquer shows the nails
worn bare near cuticles, half moons
winking like cheap rings as you dab
your filtrum, then with a single finger
screw the radio dial to better music.
You drive with your fingers
on the wheel, those clear half moons
lit like the white in a mad dog’s eye,
varnished like the white in the eyes of a woman
who quits lanes like waltzing and laughs
all agog until her smile stops on a dime.