We always end up with the face of our truths.
In the store window, she stares
at her face emerging from the mist
of blonde hair. A girl who exists
on the other side of something
beyond cheap bargains and a showroom.
Her tired eyes shutter the light
wanting to blink away the image
but knowing she must confront
her current life. The corner with cool wind
submitting to cold stillness. The moon a silver
reminder of his cufflinks crowning
a brand of fine cotton; or his keys
dangling a bright coin, a flippant sway.
And her heels pressing hard
like chalk against the side walk wanting
to draw a picture of pain. Something showers
could later wash away — like the painted bottle
of vodka in her hand. Its grey goose
just an outline hinting at truth.