"HOt."

her head’s down
slender limbs slither into the pockets of her coat,
a black one that’s two sizes too big.

but she doesn’t notice. instead, she trudges
down the stairs, away from the porch,
through this narrow city street
lit only by some modest fireflies.
two men inside shout, “where ya goin’, hot stuff?
there’s more where that came from!”

she says she’s leaving. leaving, no more than that.
her stilettos lag behind her dainty feet and scrape the concrete
as she walks. i watched her turn the corner
onto Park Avenue and encounter a streetlight.
she's been crying.

indignance and pity reacted within me
to form contempt for those men.
i blazed with disdain, staring at the door
that was open just minutes ago.

i wanted to meet her. i knew that under that deceptive
cloak existed a body – charming yet charred
by infinitely many others. i let my heat dissipate
hoping some will seep into her. as i left,
i could still discern the soft, insecure tapping of her shoes
against the cold.