Mercury Poem by David Keplinger

When the time comes I will lie
to you‚ pajamaed family‚
about the waitress who has scrubbed
with Arm and Hammer

the sterile urns that shine‚ clean as her food-
burnt hands. Our drinks in fat casino cups‚

I'll drive the Mercury. Drunk I keep telling
the truth: fifteen‚ a virgin‚ yes. And she
folds back her shirt. And she loosens the bra
from one shoulder. By a cornfield place

I sway like a suicide‚ collapse into her chest.
"Harder and you'll get a little milk‚"
she says. Of course I should know better.
I suck on her word a long time.