her voice was like
scotch at the end
of a friday night.
she lit each new
smoke with the last
one, and she used
to be dancer, which
left her legs, long
and still lean,
although the rest
of her was shot to
hell. but she could
catch an eye or two,
in the dim light,
as the piano played,
and her friend,
the bartender kept
her lips wet with
another one on the
house. she wanted
to be an actress, to
sing, and dance, but
it didn't turn out
that way. she met a
man and started to
have babies, stopping
at four. she liked
to keep a kleenex
in the cleavag of
her dress, and when
necessary pulled it
out for effect if
the right man walked
by and gave her a
look that hinted at
interest. but she
knew that her time
was running out, more
women, younger women,
smart women were
coming in more and more,
they sneered at her,
laughed in front of
her when she sang
softly to herself some
song that played.