True Beauty

the heavens rumble
in reply to
her determined riddance
of this morning’s bread
into the porcelain god,
whom she kneels before each day;
that fishes’ graveyard,
that meal disposer.

--

tiny studded thong
and matching lace bra
lie on the ripped-up linoleum
a harsh reminder of last-night’s partying
((as if the headache wasn’t enough))
a yellowing letter
sits upon the peeling pink dresser
explaining the acceptance
of her job application

--

some job it is
((well, it pays the bills
better than selling herself out ever did))
she dances in married men’s laps
in dark, smoky pubs
but she doesn’t blame them--
they come to relieve stress
or at least ignore it for a while.

--

her head spins
like a darkening tornado
as she speeds off to work
in a stranger’s convertible.
her perfect hair
perfect body
perfect clothes
catch the eye of any man
she chooses to wink at
((and many she doesn’t))
so she invested in kick-boxing—
her baywatch style needs protecting.

--

watching her dance,
sweat dripping,
tiny top slipping off,
drunken men see sex
while the sober see
--if they look hard enough,
past the raccoon eyes
the flushed cheeks
the tight clothes--
a soft smile
glad to see the rent paid.
she can sleep easily
tonight.

--

and so she grins
and those peach lips
are what the boisterous men
like about her most--
they reflect her lovely soul.
her quiet smile mirrors
her kind spirit--
true beauty.