Japanese Vans

Your fingers move like rusty scissors on my skin,
Your breath comes quickly like the flatulent stirrings
Of musk oxen in heat
I am the tequila worm held tightly in the bottle
In the back room of  a garage/beanery just
South of the border
You dream of being as close to me as
US Grant was to his cigars while I only
Dream of the headlamps on  old trucks (or lorries in the UK)
As they go rolling through the night
With their cargos of Boston baked beans,
Double ply toilet paper, forged steel rasps
Made in China, and illegal aliens on their
Way to a rendezvous with snakeheads.
I spit up my lunch: a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich
On rye with a dill pickle and half a quart of muscatel
And an ice cream cone--chocolate--and you say I have spoiled the
Mood, but, ah, now I can dream of flatulent musk oxen
Being hauled, willy-nilly, across country in Japanese
Vans on their way to who knows where…