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.