Black Lace

In the middle of the desert night
is the only thing going on,
its high plateau winds push open
the doors of a Winnemucca bar,
the dance floor wood warped with
sin and the last thing I desire
is the sight of this, peeping over
southbound walls of a
Wranglerized prison as I
serenade the waitress, a hint
of black lace.

I must consider that a cover
band blares CCR to packed packed
bar and people dance not in line
but arrhymically. She has to
work this crowd; she, the kind of
person having to pull the closing
shift: rent-needing, weary,
hurried, or plain beltless.

Setting the beer on my corner
table, for a brief moment
her smell, a faded vanilla
mixed with movement,
hits me. Lace brushes my
arm. Would the lace matter so much
if it had dots of tiny white?

Is this just the high wind talking?
The distance? She slithers through
a sea of jeans with dip rings
cut into the seat and belt
buckles branded into the front.
No nursing this brew; it slides
down easy as I wonder if there
is a pool room out back, ignore
the ruffian in me - at least the
one saying that pool tables only
lead to felt burns - and stand.