The Lizard

A lizard sits atop a neon sign
that beckons semis to pull off
from their long hauls and bathe
in the colored light.
Its narrow pupils scan the sky
for mosquito to bite out of the air.

Metal ashtrays reflect moonlight
and collect burning filters,
paper and foam stained
orange from the bleeding chemicals.
The tips of a woman’s fingernails
are yellow but not from paint,
and her teeth are the gray
that makes up headstones.

She washes her hair
in the truck stop showers
when she has the cash.
Long black strands block
the drain, and water
consumes her feet which look like
they are nothing now, but bones.

She wears the same heels
she walked across the country in,
dozens of times over, scuffed and red.
She ties on her light blue top
that makes her neck and shoulders
appetizing for the dogs.
She takes the lot as her own knocking
on windows and hoods;
they almost always let her in
to watch the stars.

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