Janet Buck The Jukebox On slippery streets of New York City’s autumn stage, she was a stick that poked through fog and beckoned pause— a thin baton of urgency waving over passing cars. Gaudy necklace, thigh high boots she used like saddlebags on trails for hiding loot in case a pirate happened by, one with brighter desperation, tricks and swiftness louder than the singeing wind. Lipstick on puffed ruby lips. A wig to cover balding spots. Cleavage of a canyon split, sweat inside its grimy cracks. When nightfall tumbled over earth, heart withdrew inside her soul— a snail’s pecker full of mucus made of tears, their liquid fire pushed like shoes that do not match to back of cluttered closet mind. Men treated her body like a jukebox, throwing dirty nickels in, counting vacant pocket time, expecting wired skeleton and rubber flesh to play a tune inside their heads— eradicating emptiness but brewing it— pots of chamomile tea.