Truck Stop: Minnesota

By Stephen Dunn

The waitress looks at my face
as if it were a small tip.
I'm tempted to come back at her
with java,
but I say coffee, politely,
and tell her how I want it.
Her body has the alert sleepiness
of a cat's. Her face
the indecency of a billboard.
She is the America I would like to love.
Sweetheart, the truckers call her.
Honey. Doll.
For each of them, she smiles.
I envy them,
I'm full of lust and good usage,
lost here.
I imagine every man she's left with
has smelled of familiar food,
has peppered her with wild slang
until she was damp and loose.
I do nothing but ask for the check
and drift out into the night air -
let my dreams lift
her tired feet off the ground
into the sweet, inarticulate
democracy beyond my ears -
and keep moving until I'm home
in the middle of my country.