The Black Skirt

By Jeffrey Alfier

From two booths down she cell-phoned her lover:

“I can’t believe I didn’t even get

a feel this morning.” There seemed no reply.

In the comer of my eye her black skirt

shimmered through dim light, like the mirages

that warped desert roads I hitched from Kingman.

She kept tugging at the hem of the skirt,

starkly aware it couldn’t hide her knees.

 

Wind from trucks bypassing the interstate

whipped up dust that weak beer rinsed from my throat,

loosing pickup lines warming on my tongue.

But her phone rang and my lines went bankrupt—

her smirk said the caller repented hard.

I zipped my coat and watched her taillights fade,

raised my thumb to a thin stream of traffic,

felt rain edge down my back like a damp breath.