Dushka
There was a woman I knew a long time ago,
I still can’t remember her name.
She maintained a slightly blurry focus,
Left of center, out of frame.
But I do recall she was a vixen in bed,
So, I’ll just called her, Dushka.
She had porcelain fingers; her tips were acrylic.
I repaired her transmission. She taught me Cyrillic.
I hovered above her most urgent desire.
She needed a fix. I became her supplier.
But her addictive passion slowly slackened with time.
She went looking after greener pastures than mine
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