She walks with her bag in hand but
Never really has anything in it.
Kill time with clip-clop heels and candy
Cans full of breath mints for prospective passers-by
New friends to make by night,
By morning
They are gone,
And she is left to smell what remains.
Cigarette ash and spilled perfume.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem