My bookmark lauds pulp fiction, some dark froth
called The Amazing Story of Carrie-Daughter of Sin.
Carrie’s image appears front and center—
50’s blonde hairdo, arched brows a la Joan Crawford,
startling crimson lips, cone-shaped bra
a statement beneath that tight red sweater,
the classic yellow pencil skirt, a hint of a slit
up the side. One hand on her hip—elbow
jutting out—the other resting on a bus stop sign.
Behind her, a man leers from a black car. He looks
gin-spent and ready to lean on the horn.
C’mon, girls, we’ve all been Carrie at least once,
tempted by the lure of the next bus, or a guy
who promises the moon dolled up in a fancy box.
Yeah, I’ll take care of you baby, he assures,
revving his Chevy Bel Air. Then he disappears
down the long road. No goodbye, not even a wave.
I swear Carrie winks at me as I turn the page
of the latest mystery I’m reading.
We’re both trying so hard to be good.