The truth is,
I hate poetry like this.
She took a drag from an imaginary fag,
And on a velvet ottoman,
With a faded jacquard print,
She imagined the evening light,
Cast the memories of bodies,
In a more,
Shall we say,
Her hands were tightening,
Around the long cigarette.
She remembered watching women
Holding them like that.
Her cheeks tilt up as her face widens.
The glamour spoke more to her,
Of dark corners and lore to her,
Than a small house wrapped in the country.
She lay across the small couch,
Remembered the hands of at least 6 men,
How they worshipped, not her, but the incarnation of the night.
Her lips, slightly wrinkled at the right,
She hated poetry like this,
That she could taste on her lips,
Like strawberries dipped,
When she was young
She hated poetry