Lady

She is a traveling circus, a late bloomer of more gaudy god-times. Fortune has spread her hummingbird heart over evening moonshine. Now she has the reminiscent whiff of lace curtains left out in the rain. In rented rooms she sprinkles potent perfumes, winks at her blur-faced mirror. She loves to recall all her men calls them ‘her boys’ counting each one possessively. By mornings harsh light she pads her bra with fairy tale romances, considers, that in a certain light, she appears almost younger. Mindful of her girlish impulses, the lady understands that she is still a puppeteers plaything to be snatched up and whirled off her feet. though she is less prone now to fits of giddy hysteria. Her make-up is a cosmetic Slurpee. Drunken are her hopeless hopes, yet they have long sheltered her from a darker despair. Who can say if you or I would manage any better, when at last we topple long past the edge of our best? Maybe you will buy her a coffee, listen to the manic music of her mind. Maybe she will smile coquettishly and grab for your hand, and you will not pull it away.