Monday, April 27, 2009

Lucky Strike

Pint sized woman of neat white bun,
the sheen of sebum yellowed her roots.
Girlish legs without vein (to the ankles anyway)
spidered in dock siders...
she meant to walk forever.

Small clipped wings in bony pride
heaved softly in sparrow print 
and cotton rhythm...
I know a smoker when I see one.

Bored, the dark checker stared, 
as my lady bent over the counter
to point a nimble finger,
"They're at the bottom, no one
smokes them anymore."
Lucky Strikes.

I felt her face; lined, kind,
and chiseled in a mirth of carefree worn.
I loved that woman and quietly
hoped I could weather like her.

Three packs paid for in cash,
she sauntered out with agile grace,
alive, well, unfettered by age...
to a world of magnolia
made stilted in false stiletto.

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