A Flapper

“Baby girl,”
boys would whisper,
soft, smokey lips and
snake eyes;
waterfall words cascading
each night into different
ears,
always similar nuances.
She had
heard the same
every duck to every dawn
without fail.
Her crystal eyes and
paper-boy hair cut;
she was almost one of them, but
not quite.
Worn out soles,
two dozen every month but
her soul never soared more than along to
bad jazz and the luke-warm liquor
they ingested like water,
wetting their appetites for
scandals and front-page-news.
“Notice me,”
was her plea,
her fee was ruby cupid’s bows and
boys in midnight tuxedos wrapped aroud her pinkies,
wedged between her rings.
“Darling,
darling,”
she would laugh in moonshine twilights,
twirling dim lights and
turmoil in her flask;
fast approaching sunrises never bothered her
until 30’s day broke and
shattered her complacency -
costume jewelry fading into depression
and oppression left as the
only memory of those moments spent when
speaking was easy.





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