Budweiser softens the lines
on the slot-machine gal's face. Night after night
and now a winner. She buys drinks
for the boys at the bar she buys drinks
for herself
and for the man in the thick black jacket
covered in dust and smelling like a chemistry set.
Budweiser softens the lines like
a holy glow
a holy blow.
Thirty-two, later, dreaming she
sits up in the slat-blind light beside him
sits up in the flickering on truck stop sheets.
Thirty-two and a winner
Budweiser softens the lines
on the stars and stripes eagles
on her thin, strung-out cheeks
on the slot machine idol
and the blaring of the lights.