Artful, languid and long
She flicks
And neither poverty, nor fear
Could touch her at that moment
Arid smoke curls almost to her brows that are
Perfect half moons
Tome of composure and inactivity
Perfect picture of reserved energy.
Unaware, that pose says
Unaware of whether stares are given in distaste or reverence
For that provocative, uncaring figure.
Eyes burning at the lapel of that uncomfortable young yuppie
Through and beyond his straight, aching back,
Through the wall behind him, beyond which an old man hurriedly stir fries his vegetable side-dish for the fiftieth customer
Through the dirty, grimy kitchen’s backdoor
Beyond the unmanned, unused night road
Into the darkness
dreaming her wealthy dreams.
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