A greasy spoon café with a broken sign and
Grimy windowpanes. Some nondescript alley,
A tributary of the boulevards that the happier
Drive their monstrous scarlet automobiles over.
Its poorer relation is home to a similar humanity
: Potbellied drunkards, rail thin chain-smoking bleached
Females. She has violet eyes with those stupid dilated
Pupils, grace a the bald light bulb,
That give her Styrofoam-caffeine carrying, stained apron
Form a vacant expression. But just gaze into those amethyst
Irises and you see an inferno. It could shock you off the
Peeling, fake leather seats. If the train crashes tonight and
Makes the news at some godforsaken hour, no one would claim
Her marred hourglass figure amongst the other corpses. Apart from
Me, macabre me because we read those dog-eared horror fictions
Knowing reality is colder, and shared day-old cappuccinos over secret
Smiles and askew glances.
I'll miss you, Veronique.