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