Forty years of cigarettes had worked her face over like a metal rake and her hair that she says use to fall like golden sunshine now sits brittle and high upon this plucked and painted landscape

But she still has legs

And an ass that stumble-dances its way from barstool to barstool like a parade of horses on their way to the starting gate carrying the jocks wearing their multi-colored silks

Prancing and snorting

All stiff legged, every step working up the lather between their cheeks

But it isn’t the body that keeps her in business, no, it’s the way she carries it

Teetering on that fine line between holding your whole world in the palm of her hand as if you are the only man that she would ever know

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