She’s the ruby red mistress of the night.
Sleek black stockings that ride up
                                                  and up,
where they disappear beneath a wave of bloodied silk.
Her hands, glassy porcelain at her sides, are freezing to the touch,
and her hair, pulled back into a neat twist, is blacker than her eyes.

She’s the made-up maiden of drunken men’s dreams.
Eyes rimmed in smoky coal and lashes smudged against her cheeks.
Men imagine their thumbs running across her mouth,
smearing in her lipstick and running along the cool line of her jaw.
She’s painted her face just for them.

She’s the hometown harlot of this little city;
tainted and obsessed over by faithful men,
with faithful jobs and proper white picket fenced lives.

She’s only around after midnight, when the stars are muted,
and the moon glows orange against her cheekbones.