my last eleven dollars
spent on drugstore rouge
and clear, thoughtless nail polish
to seal the slightest runs in ten cent hose.

warpaint for the walk.

I’ve better take care
not to open my clutch
and close it again, nervously
as the man tallying his cigarettes.

nothing left for mangoes.

cookie dough out of the question
when the region’s dutiful assembly lines
opt for quantity over lesser risks of fatality
but they’ll spend one more year cutting down.

I’ve got no fare.

one plastic bag against my hip
two mothers arguing over the merit
of natural childbirth, and if car hood deliveries
function like virginity in today’s half-lit power struggles.


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