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She was a small woman

says the size of her shoes
on the broken glass of the deserted lot.
A young one, too.
The flush of the motel sign gilds
the pointy toes and spiked heels.
A man lived with her, they say,
All charm and fast talk,
drove a two-tone Coupe de Ville.
But something went wrong
and now her shoes lay on the ground
like spit on a tavern floor.

 

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