Damaged woman, I have seen your face before:
laughing in the custody office as you asked,
“Why do you wear so much make-up?”
I smiled, looked at your face, teen-fresh,
and thought “because I don’t look like you”,
but did not say, just smiled wider;
in on the joke.
That night you wore the improbable white sailor-suit,
short, crisp, box-pleated skirt,
and Good Ship Lollipop sang to my mind.
This morning you are Long Liz Stride,
at five foot four tall for her time and class,
and every other whore who has died at the game.
Heroin may dull all
save the blade he has used on you.
I will search for it, and him;
it’s what I do with this face.
But first, a smile to Scenes of Crime
and more lipstick, I think.
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