Drama Queen

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The week they turn off your phone, 
I wait in your car while you give quarters 
to a pay phone mounted on red brick 
at a convenience store. 

Four aluminum boxes beckon like 
Parisian outdoor urinals 
for male patrons, 
suits return a page, 
a dealer promises good dope. 

A Haitian chants in Creole 
to his friends, his heavy sex 
is an anxious pendulum 
beneath floral shorts 
as he steps from one foot to another 
to the music from a car. 

A man in a Timberland beanie 
taps my window, asks for change. 
I hand him all I have 

And still you talk, 
hold your forehead in one hand, 
step on your foot, 
glance toward the windshield. 

I get out to smoke near oily puddles, 
stand in a tired pose and wait for you 
to say goodnight to Paul.

When you are back 
I whine, 
say how sleepy I am. 
You call me your favorite drama queen,
grab half my face with your hand
then drive me slowly home 
observing the gravity of past sins
in your rearview mirror.