Like horseflesh, a filly stabled by billboards
flares thin nostrils. Her mane deceives, looks
untamed, a lie for she has been subjected to
six hours of grooming, polished and primped,
false-lashed and pimped into six inch stilettos
to model a shell-pink lace thong. Oh, delicate
hook of youth posturing as a whore. And all the
while a predator salivates, imagines this nubile
girl gyrating for him alone, adoring and servile.
She is just fifteen, keeps a bear on her bed,
makes pompoms, collects green sea glass, eats
Cocoa Puffs and devours Teen Magazines.
Last week a stranger called her Mona Lisa.
Eyes wide, she replied, but my name is Mara.
He licked his lips, promised to take her to Paris,
teach her all she should know, mentioned
ambrosia, spanning stars, but his grin,
his awful, wet grin, blazed a branding.
I invite you to read my blog about free verse line spacing :)