I feel like I'm about to fly, my feet
having been above ground since they found their
place locked at the ankles behind your back.
It's a matter of fact, girl, we're good with
our hands—even if I don't remove my
rings and forget to cut long fingernails.
Here it won't matter. We've come for coffee
and public smoking. Outside, the diesel
fuel, pumps one through six-
teen, and the sound of the engines idling.
I do feel like we're going somewhere. When
we get inside I forget where we are,
pull out your chair. Do you think the truckers
can see me looking down your shirt? I try
to act tough to divert them from my gentle
manliness, but hell, Baby, we're dykes.
We're dykes! It's no wonder. Nothing else works.
Cindi Harrison is a San Francisco-based writer currently working on her first novel. Recent publications include three poems in Gertrude, a story on literarymama.com, and a piece in An Exhaltation of Forms.