Second-Hand Furs

She drifts like smoke,

drapes sorrow like a thrift-store fur,

cheap, fitted.

Her smile;

a blade to slit a lifeline clean.

Your bad luck;

job lost,

sickness buried,

nights you bled alone;

she hoists

on the gallows of gossip,

swaying for all to see.

Her love,

a parole officer’s nod,

tight-lipped, arms crossed,

poised to tsk and pivot.

She feasts on stumbles,

soft spots;

spins them into

cocktail chatter,

or knives

sheathed in silk.

The children,

oh, schooled to mirror

her warped you,

their laughter

stilled to glass.

No fists;

just fishing wire noosed

at your throat,

unseen till you choke.

She shrugs:

"Why the gasp?"

You fled her house,

but she keeps

the keys

to your skull.

She’ll die as she reigned;

draped in pilfered woes

like pearls,

deaf to their clatter

on her grave.

FSF