NightsNext door, he climbs underA jacked-up Chevy with a droplight.His girl rags offThe silver tools before passing them under.Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble.The concerto in my room goes weak.But when they quitIt's a black quiet.I lie down and my mind gets upIn its sleep.At my kitchen tableHe leans over a blank page --Cut hands and cracked nailsRimmed with slim moons of dirt.He is mockingUp a list of my loves:The click of well-seated valves,A good rock beat for the drags,A girl beside me,The beautiful poor white girlWho will litter me kids,Adjust the light, shadows for make-up. (c) BOA Editions, Ltd 1982