The light outside glowed through the threadbare curtains,

revealing the shadow of a trucker yelling

at his "white trash" girlfriend. It was late,

but we were in the heat

of our argument. We fought as if we were married,

even with the five-hour-drive separation.

Rooms with stained bed-covers, no conditioner,

and good make-up sex

were not routine. He unbuttoned his work shirt

and went to shower, but I begged him to come back

and we cuddled in silence, chest-to-chest.

I brought my hand

from beneath the covers, stroked his face

and said, on pardonne tant que l'on aime.

I knew he understood by the way

he nuzzled my neck.

I checked the clock. He had to drive the kids

to school in the morning; his wife

was on vacation. We left Quality Inn holding hands.

In the parking lot,

White Trash was fucking her new man

in his un-tinted black Ford Mustang.