Expensive,
surprisingly, her tan cardigan,
that buttoned
down between
her unstressed
breasts. . . compressed. . .
and thin; but
hair, chestnut-long enough
to modify
brushed, the lipstick, bright,
enough to protest
the tiny
yellow diamond
ring she bore
modestly. . .
with such
reserve, studied secret at “State”,
Vogue-vicarious,
that might have prompted her
to kiss the
dirty-horrible farm hand
on the next lunch
counter stool
sucking up strands
of cool wet cole slaw,
carrot-dyed-damp,
through his sagging moustache,
could I suggest
aloud
her secret pride
in being “better”
than Cartersville.
I only
city-stared until the instant
when her head was
poised, silently,
about to scream
in her crème of tomato soup.
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