On Lonely Street

Zip-up ankle boots and a voice
like Deputy Dawg, rheumy eyes
on the sidewalk and the traffic behind.
‘What y’all lookin' at?’ the lip curl
echoed something less wrinkled,
more vibrant. Sexy?
Collar of his plaid shirt turned up,
an anorexic quiff falling over one eye;
the one I could see on the real
tupelo honeys walking by.

I didn’t say what, or who, I
thought I was looking at,
and he walked into the steam coming
out of the last Mom and Pop
diner in Tennessee, clicking
his fingers all the way.