by jc jaress
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
Or falling down piss-drunk in the street
Tonight, she’s been here too long and has worn out most of her welcome
Finishing her drink, she makes a move toward the door and, fighting with the barstool over her purse, crashes to the floor in a great heap of legs and ass
God, she must’ve had great lather a few years back
