I’ve heard the gossip, the chastizing 
aproned whispers of tongue-tied lives fixed 

to a warm plum pudding. Their tisk-tisk flicked 
at your roving hands caressing black and white 

notes, your strapless velvet dress, your fine- 
tuned perfume luring leading men to their doom. 

What do they know of your low key world  
awash in deep shadow and harsh light? 

Double-crossing dame, redeemable dipsomaniac, 
why does the mise-en-scene single you out?  

Why must you pay for the flaccid schemes 
of has-beens and statesmen, shady casting 

agents who would box you like a stock character 
in a warehouse? Lithe legs, punishable pout, 

it’s clear why you want out, why you fold  
yourself into pool hall and flophouse then soiree  

with senators at the gala. Why with coquettish  
prowess, you concoct a tempting alibi for the P.I.  

behind a dirty martini. Pent up in the penthouse,  
slipping into something unseemly, you endeavor 

to tread on a man’s lust; Stanwyck ice pick, cold  
and promiscuous, shaping your pragmatic  

shadow into a blushing disguise.