where taylor avenue and griggs street meet

she came of age in the eighties, I can tell:

big hair, stretch pants that fuschia shade of ugly,

dirty Keds and slouch socks.

She sucks on that cigarette like it’s cumming in her mouth,

she slouches on that corner, idle, 

and she must live just a few houses away on that shabby block

with a coupla kids who drive her up a wall

cause she raised them spoiled rotten,

even though she couldn’t afford it.

And her husband is having an affair with that bank teller,

the one who always wears red lipstick even with a pink blouse;

and there is dirty laundry to be done, and dinner heated up,

and yet here is this Woman.

here

she

is

in her five minutes of glory:

just her, her cigarette,

and the sun setting way over there

with only a coupla telephone poles to puncture her view.