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      June 27, 2010Black Tights, A Halter TopCarol Frith

      She’s waiting near the corner of Monroe
      and Pierce: spike heels, black tights, a halter top,
      her image coding sunlight. Who will stop,
      eclipse this smolder that is burning slow
      as incense on the walk? Is she a pro?
      Perhaps, although a slowly cruising cop
      on Pierce ignores her. Her cigarette’s a prop.
      She never takes a drag—a cameo
      against the sun, her small face smiling at
      whatever thing it is might fill her needs.
      Two sparrows? The donut shop across the street?
      At her back, an oak. The light is flat.
      Pinned to the tree, a ragged sign that reads:
      For sale. Persimmons, firm to the touch, and sweet.

      Read by Alan

      from #32 - Winter 2009