Imagining a Girl

She had a long bore smile,
a smoker’s laugh,
and a posture born of whips
and taking it.

She had a red onion mind,
a carrion wit,
three prison-ink vines
on her hip.

Her scent – a pudding
of ash and caramel,
hints of road slag,
burnt rubber and mint.

She’ll cut your face
for a dime of truth
and slim recognition,
but not a penny for dancing.

She read Proust
and hated it,
spat on the spine of me –
dropped me a notch.

Soft-shouldered for gizzards
she was, taut in her loves,
and tight with the greenbacks –
she called them gloves.

Image: v2osk on Unsplash

8 Thoughts

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