Flinching at the picture of her childhood self,
Skinny boned and moonlit pale.
With saucer eyes and softly cries,
Teddy bear dreams of yellow smiles.
The window lace the only remotely
Pretty thing in her room.
She crept through those youngest years,
Lying low and staying beneath.
Still as a figurine, quiet as snow
Hardly coming up for breath.
Now in smoke filled rooms out back,
Of neon lit bad carpeted clubs,
Whisky brown faces with shifting eyes
Watch women who lurk uneasy in shadows.
Lining walls like tacky bingo prizes.
Urging booze soaked propositions
Whisper close: a graze that stings her cheek.
Stubbing a lipstick-circled fag
Under silver shoes with worn off shine,
Leaning on an inside rock for strength
She summons the smile that pays the rent.
During rare bright lit Sunday mornings,
She runs bare soled in empty parks.
Where fresh cut grass kills dog shit stink
And drops of rain still gently glisten
On steel graffitied climbing frames.
Sometimes with a potent breath
Of soothing air that sends her reeling
High up and flighty as a plastic kite,
Shiny as new dawn and optimistic
Her eyeballs spin with fleeting hope.
If you've any comments on this poem, Lisa Crosbie would be
pleased to hear from you.