Dinah’s Day

Salt-smudged mud, square-toed Oxfords;
hard leather heels flap like blackbirds
through a New York morning swarm.
Time don’t wait for crusty-eyed snails
full of midnight gin and tipsy tales.
That green-fisted fiend snaps at her back,
whatever the score, he’ll beg for more.
Those chords don’t tweet for love alone,
but for now, she owns the throne.

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