Mother of Squalor

She tipped her hat against the wind and squinted through the rain

Her life was a novella of pulp in a moonlit motion picture of class

Her high heels kicked through puddles that reflected street lights

The book in her bag was damp from intruding weather


Her coat held closed, her umbrella shielded her lipstick from the thunder

The lightning flashed, silhouetting her shadow against the passing cars

A busker stood against a wall emptying water from his guitar

A bottle of wine stood safe on her kitchen counter


The coke in her bag gave a clue to her hurried trot through the streets

The dwindling spring in her mind was racing to indulge some more

Men in pubs behind her spread rumours about her allure

Her legs were food for their hormonal hunger


At last she arrived home and discarded her twisted umbrella in the garden

She fished for her keys with dripping hands and unlocked the front door

Inside she fell against the wall and stumbled into her lounge

She paid the babysitter and put on a record


She carved out her last lines on an old record sleeve. It was a Bob Dylan vinyl

She laid back on her couch and fumbled with her backie to roll a cigarette

With no money left she used a straw to snort the last particles of white

She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her dress


Sprawled naked in the bath she let the hot shower rinse off her soiled elegance

A wine glass toiled between her fingers. She hummed a half remembered tune

She had the sense of mind to towel before she crawled to bed

She slept for an hour before her daughter cried her awake.


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