Steel Confession

Gas station. Piss-poor lighting,

smell of too much bleach.

Stepped inside the stall,

and there it was, same old sin.

'FOR A GOOD TIME CALL'

scratched into the metal, a history

of desperation, plain to see.

Just like the one back then,

in the community center, eighth grade,

when I stood there, eyes wide,

and she dared me to dial.

My hand trembled then, and I shook

now, at the crude reminder, the old shame.

Still no good time, I guess.