A sexy sonnet.
Among truck drivers and day laborers I dwell,
Three stories of us, or more so, of them and me.
A blue-collar below my white one fits well.
No Clark Kent cape, trust me, you clearly see.
Two-by-two, the men bring women at night.
Heavy boots, an awful ruckus, the stairs.
Her pitch, I picture high heels, quite a sight.
A door-code keypad, the room: his stare dares.
Tossing, turning, restless, maladjusted.
My ears struggle still, both at attention.
Dumb walls stop sound; privacy not busted.
No moans or groans, no nothing worth mention.
Tomorrow, I yawn, same time as always.
Tomorrow, my work, my words: just a phase.