She put on a show
Lacquered blacks tights, a lemonade throw
Bubbles of cream and white
Over her shoulders.
She smoulders
Outside a million dollars
Any old metaphor
Assembles its screen
She walks in front of again
The onlookers dream
When
She exposes a thigh
The queue of traffic
Unhooks its attention
From the motor-rolled static
They call her ‘good-looking’,
Handy and whore
All at different intervals
Her skin must demand comment
Yet her face absent
Sore
On the motorway footbridge
Some call her bizarre
As her silhouette image
The unsteadiness ‘teenage’
Or ‘graceful’
Or
Raw
The saline which dribbles
From resurging flaw
Like the surgical aftermath
She chokes back
Her body a map
- - Leave it at that.
To shed a tear
She becomes weak
The drivers lose interest
Until her bare feet
With blood on the instep.
For they expect shoes
The pre-packaged occasion
Of faltering forwards
Her hair an arrangement
- - Only it falls.
They considered it windswept
With lust and amazement
Before it was caught
Between sky and the pavement.
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