She was a woman in water
collecting sweet wrappers.
Her hair the long sobs
of a drunk wandering home
in the small hours. Lost kisses
carved into her eyes. The floozy
in the jacuzzi, the whore
in the sewer. You had to
know her to make that rhyme.
None of those grey men in wigs
were so abused and slurred.
They stood around in solemn silence,
their crimes forgotten,
but she was closer to the streets,
the rebel songs my grandmother whistled
even when the words were banned.
They replaced her with a giant needle
pointing up to the future.
Sharp, unforgiving, uncomplicated.
Not a place where question marks
congregated but a story moved on.
What remains, what is removed.
