wet sniffles thru smudged rose blush
she finds her face in her hands
blowing smoke from her refry stinks
up the city, stealing sobs and bitcheries
but they still don’t make any mace for stats
and for that
she doesn’t weep
but she cries,
                           cries,
                                       cries.
referring to older allusions
she holds steady to any yesters
so many “i told you so’s” driven home
make you pull like a mule, like a mule, like a mule
but they still don’t make white-out for old chats
and for that
she wouldn’t care
but she cries,
                          cries,
                                      cries.
so barren as the pantry has been
she’s seen bourbon street and sixth street
so stupid, horny, drunk and doled
and every shade of maybelline
sometimes big papa has to trim the fat
and for that
she smacks her ass
but she cries,
                          cries,
                                      cries.
                           down Riverside
she doesn’t want to see how
the moon’s alone these nights
that vexing chalk-white glare