[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/MoultonLate.mp3″]
Charlie Daniels is blaring from the jukebox
as she strolls into the bar, surveys tonight’s
selection, then sidles up to the guy on the end.
He admires her ass, curls his arm around her waist.
“Hammer’s the name,” he says in a loud voice.
She looks him over: alligator boots, green cords,
plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned to show off
his medallion. His greasy gray hair blots his collar.
She tips her chin at him, pulls a folded twenty
out of her skinny jeans pocket, puts it down
beside his upturned shot glass, spent lime,
and spilled salt. Through the window, the moon
gives his eyes a stormy look, all wind and water,
just the type of disaster she likes to drown in.