after the fire. She hangs
in the air like her mother’s bloomers
on the clothesline, blowing in the dusty
greed of yesterday’s deceased. Not a thing

stands. The bark is stripped from
the trees. Life with tied hands is hard. She
loosens her hips to let in a rolled
cigar. When the sky is blazing red, you can

water it, put it out like the trash. But
the fog lurks as the Boston strangler. And every
corner smells like pantyhose wrapped around
her elongated nose. The stub of a smoked cigarette

thrown on an ivory bar that is lit burns as
the tomb of the unknown soldier. She's that soldier carrying
her canteen. She lost her green at the age
of thirteen. The doctors said "PTSD" You can't wash

the stench off. It's a pockmark she lives
with. Covers it in make-up and garters, smiles
and lace, *****, and poetry -
that no one reads.