Bless the Child in Any Jukebox Bar
Bless the woman at the juke box
singing along softly
with broken heart songs.
She dances, sort of, alone,
swaying slow, eyes half closed.
Inside, the song stirs
(It hurts so bad…hurts so bad)
like a nerve tensing her belly,
writhing her hips.
For the moment, she’s back
with her girlish ghost
who craved that ache
mouthed into the mirror,
each lovelorn syllable pleading
for a hurt so bad just to feel alive.
Tonight, men’s eyes touch her
all over like a silken scarf
teasing her body, tormenting
ticklish skin like child’s play.
Most nights, she leaves alone.
Most nights, she likes it that way.