Jazz Girl - For Belinda
Flapper girl
Belinda belts
her dress
at the hips,
her hair in a turban,
her cigarette holder
poised between
her forefinger
and her third.
"Darling," she intones,
"coffee or tea?"
(Of course coffee
is the last thing
you'll find in the cup.)
As she dances
her arms swing up,
her legs open and close,
her eyes swirl around
hypnotizing
calculating
insinuating;
her mouth,
lipsticked bright bright red,
remains tight, cynical,
the pose of the year.
Jazz girl, they say.
She does not care
how many
lust.
She's had the ones
she wanted
with her eyes.
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