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.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
There are some great turns of phrase here Devon, a real pleasure to read. I’d love to hear your delivery of it.
Thank you, Tom. I’ve tried recording audio for a few pieces, but I can’t seem to not stumble on my tongue. I do need some practice at it certainly.
D
A great wash of pleasure as we meet a very real person we never could have imagined without help!
Thanks, Ray. Yes, very real indeed (sans the tattoos). That was a bit of license. D
This is beautiful. I myself started a blog where I post poetries. Would love for you to visit.🌹
https://blogunseen.com/
Devon, Raymond Chandler would have been envious of this masterful penning. It is sharp as a knife, with cutting metaphors which sweep like a scythe. A very definitive poem!
Thank you, Lance. I’ve never read Chandler, but having just looked up some of his quotes, I am humbled by the comparison.
D
My sincerest pleasure, Devon.