She may call you this, the lady of Parkdale, shaking her frisson of silvery hair
Eyes fringed with what looks like tiny shish-kebabs
Scab-textured, deeply tanned, skin
with slit-pink cracks:
This one’s looking to have his lion tamed, she will say,
Shoving me at a leathery old man foraging for cigarette ends on the curb,
And, Open that clam before it’s too dry to eat Ha! Ha ha!
She wears her keys on a lanyard between her colossal, tear-drop/shaped breasts
Drags her beloved dog by the neck
up and down the street barking
At everyone and here’s the thing about this vulgar dumpling:
When she smiles, this shy little line
illuminates what is genuinely beautiful
About her; this flash of dove’s wings
remembers for me
Her youth in Greece, the bar she owned on the lip of the Mediterranean
Where she would lie in the bar while men drank ouzo from her navel
As the sea churned and the sun perjured itself,
Of her poverty and hard future, it would say nothing but, Live for the moment!
The sun is a dirty, lowdown bumper-sticker!
I̱ kyría mou pragmatiká schi̱matízetai apó afró kai thárros. xxoo