Felony Mug Shot
She greets the lens with eyes frank
Lips tile hard and indecipherable
Hair tousled as if the wind screaming
Off the Sound twisted and well
You know
Or is it a wig
Sun-bleached
Stiffened with
The Gulf’s toxic
Salty murk
She says
She’s
42
The Sheriff is charging her with larceny
She stands up against a gray metal wall
If you are standing in line with her
At the Trailways station
Waiting to board the next bus to Biloxi
Will you remember her acid-yellow eyes
Reflecting her snappy acid-yellow shirt
With wide lapels
Stylish shoulders
Her nice ear clip-ons
What will you do when she turns
Pulls out a pack of Picayunes
From her beachy bag
Asks you for a light
We have time for a smoke, she says
The Driver O’Malley, that lazy butt
Just got a cup of coffee, so relax
Her lips prison orange-tinted, teeth
Hard as the lids of amber canopic jars
Will you light her up
Flick her with your Bic
And what will you say when she says
So tell me where you’re headed.
© R Young
studio arago 