The old cashier at the car dealership,
she chain-smoked skinny, long cigarettes
all day, every day.
Her voice sounded like a bullfrog
that recently learned how to curse and laugh.
The crease lines around her mouth
and the folds in her neck
conveyed a relaxed style, confidence
earned from a hard life
and dangerous choices.

Sometimes there were no customers
in front of the cashier’s window
and no mechanics busting her chops.
That's when she’d rest her elbows on the counter
and cradle a skinny cigarette
between ******* near her cheek.
That woman’s eyes would gaze outside,
glossed over in what looked like daydreams
about all those lovers, in their graves,
and their cliché widows
with their tiresome grandchildren
and their sanitized lives.

Back in the day,
men in gray suits and skinny ties
never could resist her,
but then again,
so few ever tried.