− After D.H. Lawrence
Afterhours, a crack pipe in her mouth,
dark moons of sleeplessness beneath her eyes,
she slumps –
her soul, a smoldering coal,
damped, tamped, covered in ash,
lingers in the storefront alcove,
deep in hollow recesses,
dark in shadows – waiting.
Her body bartered, battered and bled.
Yes, she’s hard, isolate, stoic −
loathing, loving her promiscuous lover,
abhorring, adoring the devoted assassin,
she’s an anxious fit, a square peg in every hole,
_________________________________ trigger happy.
She’s had to learn new words for freedom:
unemployment, privation and poverty...
welfare, that moldy crumb of best intentions.
_______This life, her life, is an echo of a long lament,
reflects the choices given her,
resounds in a deep sigh from her side of the street.
Some say that we are wicked, and I believe them.
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