Ghosts of a low moon

strippers in mid-noon bars
whisper love into five dollar bills
their jasmin nipples tassel-tight
around the neck of jack daniels

tipping dime and dollars to bus boys
and the chalk outline of forgotten lovers
that stick with sweet-sour perfume
to the edges of their tongue

and four blocks west, there are songs,
and fields of tulips with trains cutting through to nowhere.

as the drunks in downtown tanks
slash their i's, dot their t's
across the back of an empty cheque, they sing
to the low moon; the bottle that has left them.

and on fourth and main, there are angels
throwing empty buds at their wives,
as they leave with their wings and suitcases,
stapled to their sides.

and one block east, there are songs and
dreams and greyhounds going nowhere.