Deep purple rings
under each blackish-blue eye
extenuates my punch-drunk, prize fighter’s face.

I’ve fought and lost
too many set-up matches for real contenders
in life’s bout with fame and fortune
but no one lays good money down
for an HBO or Showtime
cable rendition
to watch any of my battles.

To tell the truth,
I wouldn’t either.

The reflection in the mirror never lies,
unless I the glass
that aluminates the horror
from the slave laborer
who works another day
for another miserable dollar.

“Break’s over – get back to work!”
the tyrant shouts
to the flock of sheep who fall in line,
rounded up by dogs who herd them back
but not into greener pastures.

In my job, I don’t need the man
to supervise
the hosing down
of the inside
of a dairy truck,
work that always makes me gag,
sometimes puke my guts out.
With temperatures in the teens tonight
the vomit will quickly crystallize
unless I spread it thin on the pavement
so I wash the frozen meal remnants
into the gutter.

I wipe the sleepiness from my open eyes
and examine her exquisiteness
besides me.
The girl, the new desk clerk, the one from Amsterdam,
displays tattoos from her motherland,
needle tracks,
in the softness of her thighs.

Annika asks,
“What do you do besides work the graveyard shift?”

I pause before answering,
entranced by the blueness
of her eyes,
and imagine myself skydiving
watching the curvature of the Earth
while falling through the clouds
and the twilight horizon.

“Don’t you remember, at the bar, I told you
I am a chauffeur to the stars.”

She wipes the seed of sleep
from the inside of her tear duct
before squeezing her legs
around me waist, above my boxers,
and I imagine myself a lobster,
red, boiled and about to be cracked.

“Who was your last client?”
she inquires seriously before giggling,
and tightens her grip,
forcing what’s left of my air out.

“Eddie Murphy – he drove through
on his way to Albuquerque.
There’s a production studio near the Sandia’s.”

I breathe again.

She lets me into her world.

And I thank God
Hollanders love Hollywood.

“Break time’s over I said!”
the man in the rubber soulless boots
shouts,
then kicks my ribs,
as I rest, face down,
on the concrete near the sewer grate,
my arms fat pillows for nearly frost-bit cheeks.

Though rudely awakened from my slumber,
I once again
thank the almighty
for dreams
so much more rewarding
than my so-called
life.