maybe she’s 18, the bell over the door
rings in the new arrivals
friend-in-tow they debut at the diner
small town teenage moms’ night out

it’s where the men are, motel weary
rough hands, rough eyes, rail and road ways
out-of-town anonymity, lost reputations
married to the promise of escape

a whistle like a slap breaks the silence
she falters, straightens, tries a smile, obliging
one deep breath displays her hope and burden
massive flesh compressed into a single focus

in tandem the girls assume their positions
endlessly reflecting, blonde and brown inversed
lives streaked with pieces of the other
checking her reflection in the back of a spoon