by Camilla Jean
She didn’t ask for much.
Just sometimes a drag
or a couple of bucks,
or a Cherry Coke and a cup of ice from the deli.
When she opened her door,
she’d pull her stockings up,
firmly close her crushed velvet robe,
and run an bloodless hand through platinum hair,
(shaved on one side),
“Well, hi!” like a child,
with a smile of red, oil-painted lips.