The face in the mirror won’t stop
She turned her back and sat upon the ledge,
And glared out at the city’s broken maze.
A cigarette was smoking in between
Her painted fingernails which matched the feet
Bared at the ragged edges of her jeans.
Her long, red hair was like an artery
Or vein, connected to his racing heart.
“Oh God,” she sneered in righteous, hip disgust,
As he sat cross-legged on the floor. “You’re not
One of those All-Eternity persons,
“No,” he mumbled lamely, unsure
Of what she meant. “I just don’t see what’s right
In screwing every Tom, Dick and Harry.”
“Just Tom and Dick,” she snapped, a trifle pleased
With the distinction. Her feelings still hurt
From when she nestled with him on the couch,
And he had quipped, “Who’ll take care of the baby?”
The girl in the window won’t drop
He tried to cut the tension with a quote
From the Door’s latest album, just to prove
That he was hip despite his moral tone.
“I was just thinking of that song,” she said,
A wry expression on her half-turned face,
As an ambiguous breath of smoke emerged
Before him from between her scarlet lips.