She had a long bore smile,
a smoker's laugh,
and a posture born of whips
and taking it.

She had a red onion mind,
a carrion wit,
three prison-ink vines
on her hip.

Her scent - a pudding
of ash and caramel,
hints of road ****,
burnt rubber and mint.

She'll cut your face
for a dime of truth
and slim recognition,
but not a penny for dancing.

She read Proust
and hated it,
spat on the spine of me -
dropped me a notch.

Soft-shouldered for gizzards
she was, taut in her loves,
tight with the greenbacks -
she called them gloves.