Each dusk she downs tacks
from virgin wineglasses:
(the room ripples)
to the sound of one hand clapping
the—splash—of pale toes in tangy imported water
or the snort of expensive
bottled air.
Classic …. poised ….. (pristine-white)
she masturbates
To Vogue under a
garbled iPod glow
Where fluid confidence
is the market value
(And subway jargon is the red hair
stuck in the drain)
The pearls on her necklace clatter
to the beat
of a stiletto heel clack;
She saunters to the sound,
sharp and flat,
so pretty-princess-punk
a gold mine in Central Park
(feeding diamonds to pigeons)
