jerome moore

Call Girls Have The Loneliest Of Times At Christmas - Poem by jerome moore

Holly sleeps until 5pm when it has already began to darken.
Shaves her legs into the toilet, checks the blade for rust.
Keeps a flask of gin in her zebra stripe stockings for cold gods.
Before she showers she shits and reads an old newspaper
with a photograph of her from years back, wrapped in ermine furs and lit up like a chandelier.
A guest of a famous Spaniard film directors premier. She remembers when the carriage turned into a gourd and the tiny town was all an icy model inside a snow globe. She stares down at the bathroom rug and flushes the toilet.

She head out to the icy streets of loneliness.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, January 18, 2013

Poem Edited: Friday, January 18, 2013

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