Squint enough
and she winks at me

Fifties bathing suit and pale,
Lipstick smeared just so,
floating in an inner tube
and turning idly in circles
That note of imperfection
as lustful as the glare she wears when,
in her turnings,
her back is to me

She could be selling something,
Cigarettes or tourniquets
or baby carriages in little boy blue

I sip, gently,
the ice sliding around her arms
as she reaches up and
tickles my nose

tiny frigid fingers that can't quite
grip enough to pull herself clear
of the last call all-or-nothing
finally left dejected and wet
in a past-life puddle
at the bottom of a glass

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