Nothing Like The Sun

short bold steps with her heels out of place
too high for a pint and a made-up face
with a teeny tiny dress of lace,
barely conceals the secret place

outside she smokes her first last pack
had it once and now she can't go back
and he's making her make up for the things that he lacks
shes on top of hundreds of faceless souls on their backs

the songs are moving her hips like a spell
and she smiles like the stranger you know all too well
you're hoping she'll give you her best 'what the hell'
like Pavlov, you can already imagine her smell

His secretary notes every date and time
every 2pm from his lap she climbs
and she straightens her skirts zipped up from behind
heads home with her song 'he really won't mind'
as long as there is nothing left out to find

and her cheap necklace breaks and her black lace tears
she is the hodge-podged collage framed art of affairs
selling her heart as one of her wares,
she sits reading Tolstoy on the stairs

short bold steps with her heels out of place
steps on a cigarette and the whole human race
out now brief candle, and don't leave a trace

-J.C