2 motors flaring stoked their raucous joke;
twin fans, reversed, sucked up stiff acrid smoke.

Owns his own cab. Not that ole 2-ton Mack-truck.
            Ageless, balding, pushing 60,—
but swears he still has all the luck.

Patsy’s in by 5; Steve and Spike since dawn.
           Ten regulars by 7, all set,
                    crowding their cabin.

           At forty, she’s had it, slow to go, can’t quit the scene,
                    still aching for dressing-room noise,
                    one-night-stands, divine chorus-boys.

This 50-ish frump, rat’s-nest brittle hair
             frittered by stress;
scalp daily raked to amend one last damsel flare