Slattern
Waits in a darkened doorway, hand on a cocked hip. Long practiced words roll off her lips.
“Want some company, handsome?” she huskily purrs. He shakes his head, another demurs.
She drags on her cigarette, poufs out her hair. Straightens her posture, drapes a bruised leg on a chair.
A noisy crowd leaves the theatre two blocks down. Exuberant young people out on the town.
Arms linked, hands clasped, giggling innocents still. She seeps into shadows, ashamed, a nil.
Imagines the life that might have been hers. Friendships and outings, instead of this curse.
An accident of birth, one careless stork’s drop. There, she smirks, go I, but for the grace of God.
Praying for Eyebrowz 